THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;—
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight;-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the lone blue sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest,

Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colors round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,---
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh, earth!

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony!

Temple and tower have mouldered, Empires from earth have passed,— And woman's heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image,
Thus fearfully enshrined,

Survived the proud memorials reared

By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,

When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o'ertook thee,
Fair babe, and loving heart!

One moment of a thousand

Yet better than to part!

Happy if that fond bosom,

pangs

On ashes here impressed,
Thou wert the only treasure, child,
Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavished
Its other love had been;

And when it trusted, nought remained
But thorns on which to lean.

Far better then to perish,

Thy form within its clasp,

Than live and loose thee, precious one,*

From that impassioned grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics

Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude monument,
Cast in affection's mould.

Love, human love! what art thou?
Thy print upon the dust
Outlives the cities of renown,
Wherein the mighty trust!

Immortal, oh! immortal

Thou art, whose earthly glow
Hath given these ashes holiness—

It must, it must be so!

*The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, was found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

THE MOTHER'S LOVE.

THERE is none,

IN all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother's heart.—It is but pride, wherewith
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn,
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,
The bright glad creature springing in his path,
But as the heir of his great name-the young
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
This is man's love!-What marvel?-You ne'er made
Your breast the pillow of his infancy,

While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings
His fair cheek rose and fell, and his bright hair
Waved softly to your breath!— You ne'er kept watch
Beside him till the last pale star had set,

And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph broke

On

your dim weary eye: not yours the face

Which, early faded through fond care for him,
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light,
Was there to greet his wakening. You ne'er smoothed
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest,

Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learned soft utterance; pressed your lips to his
When fever parched it; hushed his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are Woman's tasks!-In these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmarked!

WOMAN AND FAME.

THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame,—
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.

Away! to me—a woman—bring

Sweet waters from affection's spring.

Thou hast green laurel-leaves that twine Into so proud a wreath

For that resplendent gift of thine,

Heroes have smiled in death.

Give me from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour.

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat,
As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet.

But mine, let mine-a woman's breast-
By words of home-born love be blessed.

A hollow sound is in thy song,

A mockery in thy eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long

For aid, for sympathy,

For kindly looks to cheer it on,

For tender accents that are gone.

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed,