BRIGHT be thy dreams-may all thy weeping
Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping.
May those by death and seas remov'd,

The friends who in thy spring time knew thee, All, thou hast ever prized or loved,

In dreams come smiling to thee!

There may the child, whose love lay deepest,
Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest;
Still as she was-no charm forgot-

No lustre lost that life had given ;
Or, if changed, but changed to what
Thou'lt find her yet in Heaven!

Thomas Moore.

( 203 )

THE DEATH-BED.

WE watch'd her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied—

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed-she had

Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood.

( 204 )

BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS

HITHER.

BRING the bright garlands hither;
Ere yet a leaf is dying;

If so soon they must wither,

Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark! that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,

Shine to the last through flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,

Drink of it now or never;
Now while Beauty is shining,
Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time,
Oh, if life be a torrent,

Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,

Bright to the last drop flowing!

Thomas Moore.

STAND on a funeral mound,

Far, far from all that love thee; With a barren heath around,

And a cypress bower above thee; And think, while the sad wind frets, And the night in cold gloom closes, Of spring, and spring's sweet violets, Of summer, and summer's roses.

Sleep where the thunders fly
Across the tossing billow,

Thy canopy the sky,

And the lonely deck thy pillow;

And dream, while the chill sea-foam

In mockery dashes o'er thee,

Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home,
And the kiss of her that bore thee.

Watch in the deepest cell

Of the foeman's dungeon tower,
Till hope's most cherished spell
Has lost its cheering power;
And sing, while the galling chain
On every stiff limb freezes,

Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain,
Of the breath of the mountain breezes.

Talk of the minstrel's lute,

The warrior's high endeavour,
When the honied lips are mute,

And the strong arm crushed for ever;
Look back to the summer sun

From the mist of dark December,
Then say to the broken-hearted one—
""Tis pleasant to remember."

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.