And the wind ceased-it ceased! that word
Pass'd through the gloomy sky:
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And fell beneath His eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,

And silence on the blast;

They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep When sultry day is past.

O Thou! that in its wildest hour

Didst rule the tempest's mood, Send thy meek spirit forth in power, Soft on our souls to brood!

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride
Thy mandate to fulfil !
Oh, speak to passion's raging tide,
Speak, and say, "Peace, be still!”

EPITAPH

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AND A YOUTH.

[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs Hemans was fortunate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whose unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to her children, that it is hoped the owner of a name so dear to them, (though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) will forgive its being introduced into these pages.

This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,1 the mother of those "two brothers, a child and a youth," for whose monument Mrs Hemans had written an inscription, which, with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too,

"Speaks the grave,

Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope He gave." Into the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own sorrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoyments of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken with a warmth and loving-kindness which extended its genial influence to all belonging to her; and during their stay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, Mrs Hemans and her children were cherished with a true home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderburn.-Memoir, p. 192.]

Pray! Thou art blest-ask strength for sorrow's hour:

Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower.

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth
Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold
All the heart's depths before thee bright with truth,
All the mind's treasures silently unfold,
Look on this tomb!-for thee, too, speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope He gave.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION.

EARTH! guard what here we lay in holy trust,

That which hath left our home a darken'd place, Wanting the form, the smile, now veil'd with dust, The light departed with our loveliest face. Yet from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is freeWe have but lent the beautiful to thee.

But thou, O heaven! keep, keep what thou hast taken, And with our treasure keep our hearts on high; The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,

The faith, the love, the lofty constancyGuide us where these are with our sister flown: They were of Thee, and thou hast claim'd thine own!,

THE SOUND OF THE SEA.

THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea! For ever and the same;

The ancient rocks yet ring to thee

Those thunders naught can tamę.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone

From the rich bowers of earth, And hush'd is many a lovely one

Of mournfulness or mirth.

THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise,
Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood's track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours

When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art there,
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! ever more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine-

To have met the joy of thy speaking face, To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,

SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE.

"Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved,

Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust;
Had watch'd bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years,
And thus they met!"

'HASTE, with your torches, haste! make firelight
round!"-
[found?
They speed, they press: what hath the miner
Relic or treasure-giant sword of old?
Gems bedded deep-rich veins of burning gold?
-Not so-the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band
In silence gathering round the silent stand,
Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath,
Before the thing that, in the might of death,
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay-
A sleeper, dreaming not !-a youth with hair
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!)
O'er his cold brow: no shadow of decay
Had touch'd those pale, bright features-yet he
A mien of other days, a garb of yore.
Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng
A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim,
As if through many tears, through vigils long,
Through weary strainings :-all had been for him!

[wore

Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead,
In his youth's flower-and she, the living, stood
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled-
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood
Had long since ebb'd-a meeting sad and strange!
-Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still,
And mute, and gazing-all her soul to fill
With the loved face once more-the young, fair face,
Midst that rude cavern, touch'd with sculpture's
grace,

By torchlight and by death: until at last
From her deep heart the spirit of the past
Gush'd in low broken tones:-"And there thou
art!

And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part
As for a few brief hours! My friend, my friend!
First love, and only one! Is this the end

Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted! Yet thy brow
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek
Smiles-how unchanged!—while I, the worn, and
weak,

And faded-oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me !-a wither'd leaf,
Sear'd-though for thy sake-by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call'd thee! With the morning light
How have I watch'd for thee !-wept, wander'd,
pray'd,

Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd,

In search of thee !-bound my worn life to one-
One torturing hope! Now let me die! 'Tis gone.
Take thy betrothed!" And on his breast she fell,
Oh! since their youth's last passionate farewell,
How changed in all but love!-the true, the strong,
Joining in death whom life had parted long!
They had one grave-one lonely bridal-bed,
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed!
His name had ceased-her heart outlived each tie,
Once more to look on that dead face, and die!

ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY.

TO THE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!

SING, sing in memory of the brave departed,
Let song and wine be pour'd!

Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted,
Our brethren of the sword!

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices Have mingled with our own;

Fill high the cup! but when the soul rejoices, Forget not who are gone.

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, On Albuera's plain;

They that beside us cheerily track'd the flying, Far o'er the hills of Spain;

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering From old Rodrigo's wall,

The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towerFirst, first at Victory's call;

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving
In Roncesvalles' dell,
[laving-
With England's blood the southern vineyards
Forget not how they fell!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,
Let song and wine be pour'd!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted
Our brethren of the sword!

HAUNTED GROUND.

"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it wouling Aside for ever-it may be a sound,

A tone of music, summer eve, or spring,

A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall væl, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are dar c

YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear not thou-for the spell is throw
And the might of the shadow, on me alo.

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and And spirits that dwell where the water p Oh! in the heart there are stronger powe That sway, though viewless, this world of

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewe And learn'd in my own deep soul to look, And tremble before that mysterious book!

Have I not, under these whispering leaves. ( Woven such dreams as the young heart we Shadows-yet unto which life seem'd bou And is it not-is it not haunted ground?,

-were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably cal culated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:-"I send you a North American Review, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter-even our own John Dunn-the man of the panther's skin-the adopted of the Kansas-the shooter with the rifleno, with the long bow-is, I blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar; no, no better than Carraboo herself. After this, what are we to believe again? Are there any Loo Choo Islands? Was there ever any Robinson Crusoe? Is there any Rammohun Roy? All one's faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying occasion; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself."-Memoir, pp. 95-6.]

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, Where the red Indian lays his father's dust, And, by the rushing of the torrent floods,

To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust? Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, To pour itself upon the wilds again?

They are gone forth, the desert's warrior race,

By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe; But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,

With thy free footstep and unfailing bow? Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair, And where art thou?-thine arrows are not there.

They rest beside their streams-the spoil is won

They hang their spears upon the cypress bough; The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is doneThey hear the tales of old-but where art thou? The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, And there a place is fill'd that once was thine.

For thou art mingling with the city's throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,

E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. But will this be? and canst thou here find rest? Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast.

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear

From the savannah land, the land of streams? Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may hear?

Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams? They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again.

Hearthem not! hear them not!-thou canst not find In the far wilderness what once was thine!