Oh! turning to thee, I found comfort and gladness, Springing up like pure glowworms to brighten the

mind.

When passion hath kindled my heart with emotion, And my blood was a flame, and my cheek was a

blaze,

And the bosom heaved high, like some tempest-smote ocean,

At the world and its wrongs, and its dark crooked

ways,

Thine eye on my spirit, in tenderness beaming, Seemed lit up to lull its convulsions to sleep,Like the moon through the tempest-cloud soothingly gleaming,

That softens the rage of the storm-smitten deep.

We have mingled the tear when the daylight was dying,

And that full gush of feeling has not flow'd in

vain;

We have blended the sigh when the night-cloud was

flying,

And felt for a moment dissever'd from pain, By the unbroken silence around us extending, By the rapturous stillness, so calm and unmoved, That seemed in our solitude joyously blending, With all that we valued, and all that we loved.

Men may spurn me, and scorn me, and frown on me daily,

The world through each wearisome year may oppose,

Yet still shall thy smile gather over me daily

A light to my darkness, a balm to my woes.

Should joys pass away, love,and friends be fast failing,
And all that I trusted seem ready to flee,
How proud shall I triumph o'er sorrow and wailing,
By seeking thy bosom, and clinging to THEE!
W. MARTIN.

WEEP NOT FOR HER!

WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, Like flowers that know not what it is to die,

Like long link'd shadeless months of polar light,
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While echo answers from the flowery brake,
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews.
Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees:

Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay,
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark. Translated by her God with spirit shriven,

She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel
The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down age's vale of tears,

As whirl the wither'd leaves from friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes,
Victorious over death, to her appears
The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers,
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilement keep thee back, So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee on: Weep not for her!

D. M. MOIR.

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER

MARRIAGE.

THEY tell me, gentle Lady, that they deck thee for

a bride,

That the wreath is woven for thy hair, the bridegroom

at thy side:

L

And I think I hear thy father's sigh, thy mother's calmer tone,

As they give thee to another's arms,—their beautiful, their own.

I never saw a bridal, but my eyelid hath been wet, And it always seemed to me as though a joyous crowd

were met

To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish thing Lay aside her maiden gladness-for a name, and for a ring.

And other cares will claim thy thoughts, and other hearts thy love,

And gayer friends may be around, and bluer skies above;

Yet thou, when I behold thee next, mayst wear upon thy brow,

Perchance, an anxious look of care, for that which decks it now.

And when I think how often I have seen thee, with thy mild

And lovely look, and step of air, and bearing like a child,

Oh! how mournfully, how mournfully the thought comes o'er my brain,

When I think thou ne'er mayst be that free and girlish thing again.

I would that as my heart dictates, just such might be my lay,

And my voice should be a voice of mirth, a music like the May;

But it may not be! within my breast all frozen are the springs,

The murmur dies upon the lip-the music on the strings.

But a voice is floating round me, and it tells me in my rest,

That sunshine shall illume thy path, that joy shall be thy guest,

That thy life shall be a summer's day, whose evening shall go down

Like the evening in the eastern clime, that never knows a frown.

When thy foot is at the altar, when the ring hath press'd thy hand,

When those thou lovest and those that love thee weeping round thee stand,

O! may the rhyme that friendship weaves, like a spirit of the air,

Be o'er thee at that moment, for a blessing and a prayer.

M. FITZGERALD.

STANZAS

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG FRIEND.

AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to earth!