Far other once was Rosalie;

Her smile was glad; her voice,

Like music o'er a summer sea,
Said to the heart-Rejoice.

Nine years though all have given him o'er,

Her spirit doth not fail;

And still she waits along the shore

The never-coming sail.

On that high rock, abrupt and bare,

Ever she sits, as now;

The dews have damped her flowing hair;
The sun has scorched her brow.

And every far-off sail she sees,

And every passing cloud,

Or white-winged sca-bird, on the breeze,
She calls to it aloud.

The sea-bird answers to her cry,

The cloud, the sail float on;
The hoarse wave mocks her misery,
Yet is her hope not gone.

When falling dews the clover steep,
And birds are in their nest,
And flower-buds folded up to sleep,

And ploughmen gone to rest,

Down the rude track her feet have worn

There scarce the goat may go-
Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn,

Is seen descending slow.

But when the gray morn tints the sky,
And lights that lofty peak,-
With a strange lustre in her eye,

A fever in her cheek,

Again she goes, untired, to sit,
And watch, the live-long day;

Nor, till the star of eve is lit,

E'er turns her steps away.

THE DYING GIRL.t

SISTER, death's veil is gathering fast;
The chilly scal has marked my brow;
This young heart's mournful dream is past;
The golden cords are severing now.

This poem is generally attributed to Mrs. Wells; she writes with sweetness and simplicity.-ED.

+From Mrs. Hale's Magazine.

The spirit of the tear-gemmed throne
Bounds o'er me with angelic light;

And Mercy, on Love's wings, hath flown
To guide my soul's mysterious flight.

I leave thee, sister,-thee, the last,

A lone one, drooping 'mid the dead— A bud, o'er whose pale leaf is cast

The blight, from Sorrow's pinion shed.

If from the blessed realms of light,
Love still may own its mortal birth,
May soften still Affliction's night,

Thou shalt not, sister, pine on earth.

For where the young buds' dewy fold
Flings hallowed incense on the air,
Where they once met who now are cold,

This soul of mine shall meet thee there.

Kneel thou beside my lonely grave,

When summer breezes o'er it sweep, When yon proud orb, that gilds the wave, Sinks glorious to his occan sleep.

Kneel, and the vow thou breathest there,
At that lone hour, shall float on high,-
Spirits of light shall bless thy prayer,

The dead, the crowned, shall greet thy sigh.

And now, farewell! Strange music floats,
Like angel breathings, round my heart.
Are those the Avenger's awful notes?
The signal tones, that life must part?

Yes, yes, the One, the God, who sways

Creation's depths, hath bid me come To seek the realms that hymn His praise, The franchised soul's eternal home.

!

WASHINGTON IRVING.

THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,
Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene,
The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,
Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;

Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved,
And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder, and lightning, and storm;

All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame,
While the noise of the war-hoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears: