My Mary's words were words of truth;
None now behold the maid;

Amid the tears of age and youth
She in her grave was laid.

Long days, long nights, I ween were pass'd,
Ere ceased her funeral knell;

But to the spot I went at last

Where she had breathed farewell!"

Methought I saw the phantom stand
Beside the peaceful wave;
I felt the pressure of her hand-
Then look'd towards her grave.

Fair, fair beneath the evening sky
The quiet churchyard lay:
The tall pine grove most solemnly
Hung mute above her clay.

Dearly she loved their arching spread,
Their music wild and sweet,
And, as she wish'd on her death-bed,
Was buried at their feet.

Around her grave a beauteous fence
Of wild flowers shed their breath,

Smiling like infant innocence

Within the gloom of death.

Such flowers from bank of mountain brook

At eve we wont to bring,

When every little mossy nook

Betray'd returning spring.

Oft had I fix'd the simple wreath

Upon her virgin breast;

But now such flowers as form'd it breathe

Around her bed of rest.

Yet all within my silent soul,
As the hush'd air was calm;
The natural tears that slowly stole,
Assuaged my grief like balm.

The air that seem'd so thick and dull

For months unto my eye,

Ah me! how bright and beautiful
It floated on the sky!

A trance of high and solemn bliss
From purest ether came;
'Mid such a heavenly scene as this
Death is an empty name!

The memory of the past return'd
Like music to my heart,-
It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd
When we were told to part.

'God's mercy,' to myself I said,
To both our souls is given-

To me, sojourning on earth's shade,
To her a saint in heaven!'

WILSON.

THE WIDOW.

AH! who is she that sits and weeps,
And gazes on the narrow mound?-
In that fresh grave her true love sleeps,
Her heart lies with him in the ground;
She heeds not, while her babe, at play,
Plucks the frail flowers that gaily bloom,
And casts them, as they fade away,
In garlands on its father's tomb :

-Unconscious where its father lies,

'Sweets to the sweet!' the prattler cries:

Ah! then she starts, looks up, her eyes o'erflow With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe.

Again she turns away her head,
Nor marks her infant's sportive air,
Its cherub cheeks all rosy red,
Its sweet blue eyes and yellow hair:
Silent she turns away her head,
Nor dare behold that happy face
Where smile the features of the dead
In lineaments of fairy grace:

In which at once, with transport wild,
She sees her husband and her child;
Ah! then her bosom burns, her eyes o'erflow
With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe.

And still I find her sitting here,

Though dark October frowns on all;
And from the lime-trees rustling near
The scatter'd leaves around her fall:
O then it charms her inmost soul
It suits the sadness of her mind
To watch the clouds of autumn roll,
And listen to the evening wind;
In every shadow, every blast,

The spirits of enjoyments pass'd,

She sees, she hears;-ah! then her eyes o'erflow, Not with a mother's love, but with a widow's woe.

The peasant dreads the driving storm,

Yet pauses as he hastens by,

Views the pale ruin of her form,

The desolation of her eye,

Beholds her babe for shelter creep
Behind the gravestone's dreary shade,
Where its father's wishes sleep,
And all its mother's hopes are laid;
Remembering then his own heart's joy,
A rosy wife, a blooming boy,

'O God!' he sighs, when I am thus laid low,
Must my poor partner feel a widow'd mother's woe!'

He gently stretches out his arm,

And calls the babe in accents mild;
The mother shrieks with strange alarm,
And snatches up her weeping child:
She thought that voice of tender tone,
Those accents soft, endearing, kind,
Came from beneath the hollow stone!
He marks the wandering of her mind,
And, musing on his happier lot,

Seeks the warm comforts of his cot.

He meets his wife;-ah! then his eyes o'erflow;
She feels a mother's love nor dreads a widow's woe!

The storm retires;—and hark! the bird,
The lonely bird of autumn's reign,
From yonder waving elm is heard ;-
O what a wild and simple strain!
See the delighted mourner start
While robin redbreast's evening song
Pours all its sweetness through her heart,
And soothes her as it trills along:
Then gleams her eye; her fancy hears
The warbled music of the spheres ;

She clasps her babe; she feels her bosom glow,

And in the mother's love forgets the widow's woe.

Go to thine home, forsaken fair!
Go to thy solitary home:
Thou lovely pilgrim! in despair
To thy saint's shrine no longer roam;
He rests not here;-thy soul's delight
Attends where'er thy footsteps tread;
He watches in the depths of night,
A guardian angel round thy bed,
And still a father, fondly kind,

Loves the dear pledge he left behind;

Behold that pledge!-then cease thy tears to flow, And in the mother's love forget the widow's woe. MONTGOMERY.

THE WIDOWER.

FROM the dwelling of the widower there breathed a hollow moan,

To some one he seem'd talking, when I knew he was alone:

I listen'd at the lattice of the chamber where he lay, And, 'mid deep sobs of anguish, I plainly heard him say

'Thou livest in my bosom, love! though thou from earth hast fled,

And on thy widow'd pillow shall no other lay her head.'

Then sighs, that seem'd to rive his heart, his utterance quite drown'd,

And on his knees, with vehemence, he dropp'd upon the ground

'Oh, give me strength, great God!' he cried, this misery to bear;

Or, with the angel I have lost, take, take me to your care: