Sat hand in hand, in speechless grief to wait death's coming cloud.

It came at length ;--o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,—

And an awful shade pass'd o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last ;

In thicker gushes strove thy breath,

drooping head,

-we raised thy

A moment more-the final pang-and thou wert of the dead!

Thy gentle mother turn'd away to hide her face from

me,

And murmur'd low of Heaven's behests, and bliss

attain'd by thee;

She would have chid me that I mourn'd a doom so bless'd as thine,

Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!

We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow

Cull'd one soft lock of radiant hair-our only solace

now;

Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers not more fair and sweet

Twin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,

With all the beauty of thy cheek-the sunshine of thy

brow,

They never can replace the bud our early fondness

nursed,

They may be lovely and beloved, but not like theethe first!

The first! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring,

Of hopes that blossom'd, droop'd, and died, in life's delightful spring ;—

Of fervid feelings pass'd away-those early seeds of bliss,

That germinate in hearts unsear'd by such a world as this.

My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first! When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst;

But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,

And my sighs are hush'd, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain

of earth,

With not a taint of mortal life except thy mortal birth,

God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,

And bliss-eternal bliss-is thine, my fairest and my first!

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

MOORE.

OH, the days are gone, when beauty bright, My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life from morn till night, Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life,

As love's young dream;

Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life,
As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past,

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet,

In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sung to woman's ear,

His soul-felt flame;

And at ev'ry close she blush'd to hear

The one lov'd name.

Oh, that fairy form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste:

'Twas odour fled,

As soon as shed,

'Twas morning's winged dream;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:

Oh, 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.

THE WAKENING.

MRS. HEMANS.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest-bough,
To the rustling leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,-
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice;
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,

Which tells that a field must, ere night, be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict cell,

To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,

While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the sounds from the city borne ;
And some to the rolling of torrent-floods,
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Each unto light hath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But ONE must the sound be, and ONE the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
ONE, though to sever'd and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs ?

THE CHILD'S DREAM.

BARTON.

WHAT know we of the glorious sights which bless an infant's dream?

Or, could we guess them, what more meet to be a poet's theme?

The hope than e'en a glimpse of such my numbers might make known,

To fond imagination brings a day-dream of its own.