But oh, more soft, more tender, breathing more
A thought of pity than in vanish'd days;
While hov'ring silently and brightly o'er

The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze
With their immortal eyes, they seem to say,
"Yet sister! yet we love thee-come away

"Twill fade, the radiant dream! and will she not Wake with more painful yearning at her heart? Will not her home seem yet a lonelier spot,

Her task more sad, when those bright shadows part? And the green summer after them look dim, And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn? But let her hope be strong, and let the dead Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty still; Be their names utter'd, be their memory spread, Yet round the place they never more may fill! All is not over with earth's broken tieWhere, where should sisters love, if not on high?

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

"And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.

"And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall

we drink?

"And he cried unto the Lord; and the Lord shewed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."--Exod. xv. 23-25.

WHERE is the tree the prophet threw,

Into the bitter wave?

Left it no scion where it grew,

The thirsty soul to save?

Hath nature lost the hidden power,
Its precious foliage shed?

Is there no distant eastern bower,
With such sweet leaves o'erspread

Nay, wherefore ask ?-since gifts are ours,
Which yet may well imbue,

Earth's many troubled founts with showers
Of heaven's own balmy dew.

Oh! mingled with the cup of grief,
Let faith's deep spirit be,

And every prayer shall win a leaf,
From that blest healing tree!

THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.

Hast thou through Eden's wild wood vales pursued
Each mountain-scene magnificently rude,
Nor with attention's lifted eye revered,

That modest stone which pious Pembroke reared,
Which still records, beyond the Pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour.

Pleasures of Mémory.

MOTHER and child! whose blending tears
Have sanctified the place,
Where to the love of many years
Was given one last embrace;
O! ye have set a spell of power
Deep in the records of that hour;

A spell to awaken solemn thought,
A still small under tone,

That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled, of remorse.

For who that gazes on the stone

Which marks your parting spot,

Who but a mother's love hath known,
The one love changing not?

Alas! and haply learned its worth,

First with the sound of "earth to earth?"

But thou, true hearted daughter! thou

O'er whose bright honored head

Blessings and tears of holiest flow
Even here were fondly shed;

Thou from the passion of thy grief
In its full tide couldst draw relief.

For oh! though painful be the excess,
The might wherewith it swells,
In nature's fount no bitterness

Of Nature's mingling dwells,

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,
Poison'd the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more
Which thy young heart first knew?
And all-was all in this world o'er
With ties thus close and true?
It was; on earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.

No other voice could pierce the maze
Where deep within thy breast,
The sounds and dreams of other days
With memory lay at rest;

No other smile to thee could bring
A gladdening like the breath of Spring.
Yet while thy place of weeping still
Its lone memorial keeps,

While on thy name, midst wood and hill,
The quiet sunshine sleeps,

And touches, in each graven line,
Of reverential thought a sign;

Can I, while yet these tokens wear
The impress of the dead,

Think of the love embodied there,
As of a vision fled?

A perish'd thing, the joy and flower
And glory of an earthly hour?

Not so!-I will not bow me so
To thoughts that breathe despair;
A loftier faith we need below,
Life's farewell words to bear!

Mother and child!-your tears are past-
Surely your hearts have met at last!

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

THE stranger's heart! oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;

In the green shadow of thy tree
The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leave's
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day!

Then are the stranger's thoughts opprest-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
Thou think'st it sweet when friend to friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who pray'd with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
The voices of thy kindred band;
Oh, 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

"Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow!
I am the lord of the lonely tomb,
And a mightier one than thou!

Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief!
Bid her a long farewell!

Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief--Thou comest with me to dwell!

Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep,
Thy steed o'er the breezy hill;

But they bear thee on to a place of sleep,
Narrow, and cold, and chill!"

"Was the voice I heard, thy voice, O Death? And is thy day so near?

Then on the field shall my life's last breath
Mingle with Victory's cheer!

Banners shall float with the trumpet's note,
Above me as I die!

And the palm tree wave o'er my noble grave,
Under the Syrian sky.

High hearts shall burn in the royal hall,
When the minstrel names that spot;
And the eyes I love shall weep my fall-
Death! Death! I fear thee not."

"Warrior! thou bearest a haughty heart,
But I can bend its pride!

How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part
In the hour of Victory's tide?

It may be far from thy steel-clad bands,
That I shall make thee mine;
It may be lone on the desert sands,
Where men for fountains pine!

It may be deep amidst heavy chains,
In some strong Paynim hold-

I have slow dull steps and lingering pains,
Wherewith to tame the bold!"

"Death! Death! I go to a doom unblest
If this indeed must be!

But the cross is bound upon my breast,
And I may not shrink for thee!

Sound, clarion, sound'-for my vows are given
To the cause of the holy shrine;

I bow my soul to the will of Heaven,
O Death! and not to thine!"