Covering them round, how sweet her accents are!
Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far,
Far above singing!-But soon nothing stirs
To break the silence-Joy like his, like hers,
Deals not in words; and now the shadows close,
Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly! As departs the day,
All that was mortal seems to melt away,
Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given,
She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven!

Then are they blest indeed; and swift the hours Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, Kindling her beauty-while, unseen, the least Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest, Known by her laugh that will not be suppressed. Then before All they stand-the holy vow And ring of gold, no fond illusions now, Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, And tear kissed off as soon as shed, every His house she enters there to be a light Shining within, when all without is night; A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing; Winning him back, when mingling in the throng, From a vain world we love, alas, too long, To fire-side happiness, and hours of ease

Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.

}

How oft her eyes read his; her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;
Still subject-ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts-touch them but rightly-pour
A thousand melodies unheard before!

Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies, And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy, With smiles how sweet, how full of love and joy, To meet him coming; theirs through every year Pure transports, such as each to each endear! And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill Their home with gladness. She, when all are still, Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie, In sleep how beautiful! He, when the sky Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony, When, gathering round his bed, they climb to share His kisses, and with gentle violence there Break in upon a dream not half so fair, Up to the hill-top leads their little feet; Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear The otter rustling in the sedgy mere ;

Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree,

That gave him back his words of pleasantry-
When the House stood, no merrier man than he!
And, as they wander with a keen delight,
If but a leveret catch their quicker sight
Down a green alley, or a squirrel then

Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again,
If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall,

He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all;
These with unequal footsteps following fast,

These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last.

D D

}

The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow, And the swart seaman, sailing far below, Not undelighted watch the morning ray Purpling the orient-till it breaks away,

And burns and blazes into glorious day!

But happier still is he who bends to trace
That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face;
The burst, the glow, the animating strife,

The thoughts and passions stirring into life ;
The forming utterance, the inquiring glance,
The giant waking from his ten-fold trance,
Till up he starts as conscious whence he came,
And all is light within the trembling frame!

What then a Father's feelings? Joy and Fear
In turn prevail, Joy most; and through the year
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way,
Praising each highly-from a wish to raise
Their merits to the level of his Praise,
Onward in their observing sight he moves,
Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves!
Their sacred presence who shall dare profane ?
Who, when He slumbers, hope to fix a stain?
He lives a model in his life to show,

That, when he dies and through the world they go,
Some men may pause and say, when some admire,
They are his sons, and worthy of their sire!”
But Man is born to suffer. On the door
Sickness has set her mark; and now no more
Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild
As of a mother singing to her child.

All now in anguish from that room retire,
Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire,
And Innocence breathes contagion-all but one,
But she who gave it birth-from her alone