With broken sighs and gushing tears,
That sister's lovely form was laid;
Five changing years! yet even now
I gaze, as then, upon her brow,

And seem to hear a low, soft voice,
Which bids my very heart rejoice;
And then I start and weep, to find,
That that which blessed my ear and eye
Was but a vision of the mind,-

The echo of a voice gone by ;-
For here I see the long grass wave
Sadly above my sister's grave!

Yet there is beauty here. The bee

Hums sweetly through the summer hours, And the soft breezes wander free

'Midst bursting leaves and budding flowers;

And on the air is borne along

The lonely wood-bird's pensive song;
While the mild sunlight, like a spell,
Slumbers upon each hill and dell:-
What wonder, then, that to my heart,

This grave, which in such beauty lies, Where earth and heaven their charms impart, Should seem the gate of Paradise,

Where Faith, with her sweet smile of love,
Points to the glorious heavens above ?

And often thus, to this lone glen,

I will with thoughtful footsteps turn,

Far from the busy haunts of men,

The purposes of life to learn ;Till, laid beside my sister's grave, The same long grass o'er both shall wave.

A DIRGE.

BEAUTIFUL on thy fair brow,
Brother, death is sitting now!
Calmly as on mother's breast,
Weary child, thou slumberest,
That deep sleep, which ne'er again
Wakes to mortal grief and pain.

Round thee, in the waning year,
Leaves are falling sad and sear,
Soon will winter's sighing blast
O'er thee strew them thick and fast-
But in thy green spring-tide, thou,
Gentle brother, liest low.

Flowers are fading on thy bier,
Hands of love had scattered here-
Meetly thus the sweets they fling
O'er thee of their withering,

In thy bright young bloom like them
Severed from the natal stem.

Yet, O brother, not for thee
Flow our tears of agony!

Even 'midst the darkness left
O'er the home of thee bereft,
From thy spirit's radiant track
Who, O who would call it back!

When the rainbow shines o'erhead,
Mourn we for the dew-drop fled ?
Or when springs the flower on high,
That the buried seed should die?
Far less bright than thou art now,
Flower of earth or heavenly bow.

Brother, like some silenced tone
Of sweet music art thou gone!
Ere thy light of youth grew dim,
God hath taken thee to Him,-
-Welcome were the hour to me,
Brother, to lie down with thee !

LYDIA.

JOHN PIERPONT.

Miss Lydia B. Gates, only daughter of Colonel William Gates, of the United States Army, died at Fort Columbus, Governor's Island, New York, February 28th, 1839, aged 19.

I SAW her mother's eye of love

As gently on her rest,

As falls the light of evening's sun
Upon a lily's breast.

And the daughter to the mother raised
Her calm and loving eye,

As a lake, among its sheltering hills,
Looks upward to the sky.

I've seen a swelling rose-bud hang

Upon its parent stem,

Just opening to the light, and graced

With many a dewy gem,

And, ere that bud had spread its leaves

And thrown its fragrance round,

I've seen it perish on its stem,
And drop upon the ground.

So, in her yet unfolding bloom,
Hath Lydia felt the blast;

A worm unseen hath done its work ;-
To earth the bud is cast,

And on her lowly resting-place,

As on the rose-bud's bed

Drops from the parent tree are showered,

Her parents' tears are shed.

And other eyes there are that loved

Upon that bud to rest;

There's one who long had hoped to wear

The rose upon his breast;

Who'd watched and waited lovingly

Till it was fully blown,

And who had e'en put forth his hand,

To pluck it as his own.

A stronger hand than his that flower
Hath gathered from its tree!
And borne it hence, in paradise
To bloom immortally;

And all that breathe the fragrance there
That its young leaves exhale,

It shall remind of Sharon's rose,-
The lily of the vale.

The soldier father have I seen
Suppress a struggling sigh,
And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her.
Stood trembling in his eye;-
No other daughter, in his arms,
Had ever slept, a child,

No other daughter, on his knee,
Had ever sat and smiled.

And he was far away from her,
But for her had his fears,

And anxious thoughts, upon his brow,
Had left the stamp of years;

And now the grave hath, from his hand,
Received its sacred trust,

And father's, mother's, lover's tears
Have mingled with her dust.

Peace to her dust! for, surely, peace
Her gentle spirit knows;

Around her narrow house, on earth,
The night wind sadly blows,