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Hast thou, through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued
Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude,
Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered
That modest stone, by pious Pembroke rear'd,
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour?


Mother and child ! whose blending tears

Have sanctified the place,
Where, to the love of many years,

Was given one last embrace ;
Oh! ye have shrin'd a spell of power,
Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken 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 learn’d its worth First with the sound of “ Earth to earth ? "

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou,

O'er whose bright, honor'd head, Blessings and tears of holiest flow,

Ev'n here were fondly shed, Thou from the passion of thy grief, In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

For oh! though painful be th' 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 gladd’ning, 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 filed ?
A perish'd thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one 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!


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• Ne me plaignez pas—si vous saviez
Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a éparguées !”

I stoop beside thy lowly grave;

Spring-odors breath'd around,
And music, in the river-wave,

Pass'd with a lulling sound.

* Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.- Tales by the O'Hara Family.

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