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WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

But the pure page may still impart
Some dream of feeling, else untold,-
The silent record of a heart,

E'en when that heart is cold:
Its long memorials here may bloom,-
Perchance to gentle bosoms dear,
Like flowers that linger o'er the tomb
Bedewed with Beauty's tear.

I ask not for the meed of fame,
The wreath above my rest to twine,-
Enough for me to leave my name
Within this hallowed shrine ;-
To think that o'er these lines thine eye
May wander in some future year,
And Memory breathe a passing sigh
For him who traced them here.

Calm sleeps the sea when storms are o'er,
With bosom silent and serene,
And but the plank upon the shore
Reveals that wrecks have been.
So some frail leaf like this may be
Left floating on Time's silent tide,-
The sole remaining trace of me,-
To tell I lived and died.

279

THE CHURCHYARD.

BY MISS BOWLES.

THE thought of early death was in my heart,
Of the cold grave, and "dumb forgetfulness;"
And with a weight like lead,

An overwhelming dread
Mysteriously my spirit did oppress.

And forth I roamed in that distressful mood,
Abroad into the sultry, sunless day;

All hung with one huge cloud,

That like a sable shroud

On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay.

Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms (Instinctively my feet had wandered there), And through that awful gloom,

Headstone and altar tomb

Among the dark heaps gleamed with ghastlier glare.

Death-death was in my heart, as there I stood;
Mine eyes fast fixed on a grass-grown mound;
As though they would descry

The loathsome mystery
Consummating beneath that charnel ground.

Death, death was in my heart-Methought I felt
A heavy hand that pressed me down below-
And some resistless power

Made me, in that dark hour,
Half long be, where I abhorred to go.

THE CHURCHYARD.

281.

Then suddenly-albeit no breeze was felt-
Through the tall tree-tops ran a shivering sound—
Forth from the western heaven
Flashed forth the flaming levin,

And one long thunder-peal rolled echoing round.

One long, long echoing peal, and all was peaceCool rain-drops gemmed the herbage-large and few;

And that dull vault of lead
Disparting overhead,

Down beamed an eye of soft celestial blue.

And up toward the heavenly portal sprang
A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain ;—
Up from my very feet-

66

And, oh! how clear and sweet

Rang through the fields of air his mountain strain.

Blithe, blesséd creature! take me there with thee," I cried in spirit-passionately cried

But higher still, and higher

Rang out that living lyre,

As if the bird disdained me in its pride.

And I was left below, but now no more

Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Night;
Up with the skylark's lay

My soul had winged its way
To the supernal source of Life and Light.

THE DREAMER.

"There is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind. A thousand accidents may and will interpose a veil between our present, conscious, and the secret inscriptions of the mind; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever."-ENGLISH OPIUM EATER.

REST from thy griefs! thou art sleeping now;
The moonlight gleam is upon thy brow;
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast
Lies, 'midst the hush of thy heart, at rest,
Like the scent of a flower, in its folded bell,

When eve through the woodlands hath sighed farewell.

Rest!-the sad memories that through the day,
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay,-
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead,
That bow thee as winds bow the willow's head-
The yearnings for voices and faces gone-
All are forgotten !-sleep on-sleep on!

Are they forgotten?-no, 'tis not so-
Slumber divides not our hearts from woe;
E'en now, o'er thine aspect swift changes pass,
Like lights and shades over waving grass.
Tremblest thou, dreamer?-Oh, love and grief,
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf.

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill,
As on a lyre, ere its chords are still;

On the long silken lashes that fringe thine eye
There's a large tear gathering heavily;-
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed,-
Sorrowful dreamer, this is not rest!

THE DREAMER.

It is Thought at work amidst busied hours,
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers;
Oh, we bear within us mysterious things
Of memory and anguish, unfathomed springs,
And passion, those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still.

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away;
Well might we look on our souls in fear,
They find no fount of oblivion here;

They forget not the mantle of sleep beneath-
How know we if under the wings of death?

283

THE FAMILY PICTURE.

BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.

WITH work in hand, perchance some fairy cap,
To deck the little stranger yet to come;
One rosy boy struggling to mount her lap―
The eldest studious, with a book or map;
Her timid girl beside, with a faint bloom,
Conning some tale-while, with no gentle tap,
Yon chubby urchin beats his mimic drum,
Nor heeds the doubtful frown her eyes assume.
So sits the mother! with her fondest smile
Regarding her sweet little ones the while.
And he, the happy man! to whom belong
These treasures, feels their living charms beguile
All mortal cares, and eyes the prattling throng
With rapture-rising heart, and a thanksgiving tongue!

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