So the sad rite was clos'd.-The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave,
And the pale image of a youth array'd

As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid

In slumber on his shield.-Then all was done, All still, around the dead.-His name was heard Perchance when wine cups flow'd, and hearts were stirr'd

By some old song, or tale of battle won,

Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceas'd
Mingled with theirs.-E'n thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side:
Alas! to think of this!—the heart's void place
Fill'd up so soon !—so like a summer-cloud,
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace !—
He lay forgotten in his early shroud.

Forgotten?

not of all!-the sunny smile

Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,

And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle-these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow.-Day by day,
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Through the dim fane soft summer-odors breathing,
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Through storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love-a secret love and lowly,
And the rose image all things fleet and fair,
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush through every season?-Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still,

For years, those gorgeous coronals renew'd,

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even through mid-winter fill'd the solitude

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm.
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring
In lone devotedness!

One spring-morn rose,

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid— Oh! not as 'midst the vineyards, to repose

From the fierce noon-a dark hair'd peasant Who could reveal her story?-That still face

maid:

Had once been fair, for on the clear arch'd brow, And the curv'd lip, there linger'd yet such grace As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eyeFor death was on its lids-fell mournfully. But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight?-Her kindred's place, Was not amidst the high De Couci race;

Yet there her shrine had been !-She grasp'd a wreath

The tomb's last garland!-This was love in death!

INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG.

An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful deathsong, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the Source of St Peter's River.