THE WIFE'S SONG.

That scene of love! - where hath it gone?
Where have its charms and beauty sped?
My hours of youth, that o'er me shone -

Where have their light and splendour fled?
Into the silent lapse of years

And I am left on earth to mourn:

And I am left to drop my tears

O'er memory's lone and icy urn!

Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,
I shall be gather'd in my pall;
Oh, my dark hours on earth are few

My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;

And I shall soon bid life adieu,

To seek enduring joys in heaven!

THE WIFE'S SONG.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

As the tears of the even,
Illumined at day

By the sweet light of heaven,
Seem gems on each spray ;

So gladness to-morrow

Shall shine on thy brow,

The more bright for the sorrow

That darkens it now.

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Yet if fortune, believe me,
Have evil in store,

Though each other deceive thee,

I'll love thee the more.

As ivy leaves cluster

More greenly and fair,
When winter winds bluster

Round trees that are bare.

LAMENT.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK.

THERE is a voice, I shall hear no more—
There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,-
Precious and rich—but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear-
Never again will they murmur here;
They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.

There were eyes that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;

They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;

Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring

When birds in the vernal branches sing;

They were filled with love, that hath passed with them, And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

LAMENT.

I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures, that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed-
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!

Alas! for the clod that is resting now

On those slumbering eyes-on that faded brow;
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom--
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died—
Oh loved one!—would I were by thy side!

Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm-
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom--thou art not here.

Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest--

A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.

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Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid—
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid ;-
All that was lovely to me is there,
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!

LINES

[Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend.]

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

As playful boys by ocean's side

Upon its margin trace,

Some frail memorial which the tide

Returning must efface;

Thus I upon this brittle glass

These tuneless verses scrawl,
That they, when I away shall pass,
May thought of me recall.

The waves that beat upon the strand
Wash out the schoolboy's line,

As soon some rude or careless hand
May shiver those of mine.

But though what I have written here
In thousand fragments part,

I trust my name will still be dear,
And treasured in the heart.

THE SEPULCHRE OF DAVID.

BY WILLIAM L. STONE.

“As for Herod, he had spent vast sums about the cities, both without and within his own kingdom: and as he had before heard that Hyrcanus, who had been king before him, had opened David's sepulchre, and taken out of it three thousand talents of silver, and that there was a greater number left behind, and indeed enough to suffice all his wants, he had a great while an intention to make the attempt; and at this time he opened that sepulchre by night and went into it, and endeavoured that it should not be at all known in the city, but he took only his most faithful friends with him. As for any money, he found none, as Hyrcanus had done, but that furniture of gold, and those precious goods that were laid up there, all which he took away. However, he had a great desire to make diligent search, and to go farther in, even as far as the very bodies of David and Solomon; where two of his guards were slain by a flame that burst out upon those that went in, as the report was. So he was severely affrighted, and went out and built a propitiatory monument of that fright he had been in, and this of white stone, at the mouth of the sepulchre, and that at a great expense also."-Josephus.

HIGH on his throne of state,
A form of noblest mould,
The Hebrew monarch sate,
All glorious to behold.

With purest gold inwrought,
Full many a sparkling gem,
From distant India brought,
Enriched his diadem.

A crystal mirror bright,
Beneath the canopy,
Shot back in silvery light

The monarch's panoply !