As from the sun shut out on every side
By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill,

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart
Bears its first blow! it knows not yet the part
Which life will teach-to suffer and be still,
And with submissive love to count the flowers
Which yet are spared, and through the future hours
To send no busy dream! She had not learned
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turned
In weariness from life. Then came the unrest,
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast,
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps: until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams
In her own sunny land; and murmuring oft
Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers? Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow
And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow?
Something was there that, through the lingering night,
Outwatches patiently the taper's light-

Something that faints not through the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness—

Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that power,
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower?
Whence?-who can ask? The wild delirium "assed,
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old !—and had she come,
Thus in life's evening from her distant home,
To save her child? Even so-nor yet in vain :
In that young heart a light sprang up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seemed this fair world, though faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
"Sweet mother! gentlest mother! can it be?
The lorn one cried, "and do I look on thee?

Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore,
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more."

THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.

["This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead.

Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance-not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the King brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother."-SHERER'S Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.] "In sweet pride upon that insult keen

She smiled; then drooping mute and brokenhearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed."

MILMAN.

IT stands where northern willows weep,

A temple fair and lone;

Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep

From cypress branches thrown ;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feelest the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined?
A sculptured woman's form,
Lovely, in perfect rest reclined,
As one beyond the storm :
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies
The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face,
The mantle's quiet flow,

The gentle yet majestic grace

Throned on the matron brow;
These, in that scene of tender gloom,
With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet
Of the fair image wrought;
kingly emblem-nor unmeet
To wake yet deeper thought:
he whose high heart finds rest below,

Was royal in her birth and woe.

There are pale garlands hung above,
Of dying scent and hue;

She was a mother-in her love

How sorrowfully true!

Oh! hallowed long be every leaf,

The record of her children's grief!

She saw their birthright's warrior-crown
Of olden glory spoiled,

The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield's bright blazon soiled:
She met the tempest, meekly brave,
Then turned o'erwearied to the grave.

She slumbered: but it came-it came,
Her land's redeeming hour,

With the glad shout, and signal flame
Sent on from tower to tower!

Fast through the realm a spirit moved-
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a note that rung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic deep :
Her grief, a bitter vial poured
To sanctify the avenger's sword.

And the crowned eagle spread again

His pinion to the sun;

And the strong land shook off its chain

So was the triumph won!

But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone
Still blends with victory's !-She was gone!

THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.

[On the road-side, between Penrith and. Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:-"This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, CountessDowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616."-See notes to the Pleasures of Memory.]

"Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales, pursued
Each mountain scene magnificently rude,

Nor with attention's lifted eye revered

That modest stone, by pious Pembroke reared,
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour?"

ROGERS.

MOTHER and child! whose blending tears
Have sanctified the place,

Where, to the love of many years

Was given one last embrace

Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power

Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken solemn thought—
A still, small under tone,

That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;

And smites, perchance, the hidden source,

Though long untroubled - of remorse.

For who, that gazes on the stone
Which marks your parting spot,

Who but a mother's love hath known-
The one love changing not?

Alas! and haply learned its worth
First with the sound of "Earth to earth!"

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou,
O'er whose bright honoured head
Blessings and tears of holiest flow
E'en here were fondly shed—
Thou from the passion of thy grief,
In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

For, oh though painful be the excess,
The might wherewith it swells,
In nature's fount no bitterness

Of nature's mingling dwells;

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,
Poisoned the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more
Which thy young heart first knew?
And all-was all in this world o'er
With ties thus close and true?
It was! On earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.

No other voice could pierce the maze
Where, deep within thy breast,
The sounds and dreams of other days
With memory lay at rest;

No other smile to thee could bring
A gladdening, like the breath of spring.

Yet, while thy place of weeping still
Its lone memorial keeps,

While on thy name, midst wood and hill,

The quiet sunshine sleeps,

And touches, in each graven line,

Of reverential thought a sign;

Can I, while yet these tokens wear
The impress of the dead,

Think of the love embodied there
As of a vision fled?

A perished thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one earthly hour?

Not so!-I will not bow me so

To thoughts that breathe despair!

A loftier faith we need below,

Life's farewell words to bear. Mother and child !-your tears are pastSurely your hearts have met at last.

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.1

"Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez

Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnées !"

I STOOD beside thy lowly grave;
Spring odours breathed around,
And music, in the river wave,
Passed with a lulling sound.

All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seemed to run
Through the soft azure sky.

Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough
That fringed the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad-but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.

And mournful grew my heart for thee!
Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song, was shrined.

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world's vernal dawn.

Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have loved so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.

The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring--
Ånd thou wert passed away.

But then, e'en then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
The immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.

Surely on lovelier things, I said,

Thou must have looked ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.

1"Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it."-Tales by the O'Hara Family.

N