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DIRGE OF A CHILD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!

With flowers alone we strew thy bed,
O blest departed one!

Whose all of life, a rosy ray,

Blush'd into dawn, and pass'd away.

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub soul and form,
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower,

That never felt a storm!

The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath,
All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light,
That Heaven benignly call'd thee hence,

Ere yet the world could breathe one blight
O'er thy sweet innocence:

And thou, that brighter home to bless,

Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness!

Oh! hadst thou still on earth remain'd,

Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!

How soon thy brightness had been stain'd

With passion or with grief! Now not a sullying breath can rise,

To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,

No sculptured image there shall mourn;

Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom

Such dwelling to adorn.

Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be

The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath,

Each glowing season shall combine

Its incense there to breathe ;

And oft, upon the midnight air,

Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose,

And bear from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!

What form more lovely could be given

Than thine, to messenger of Heaven?

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the ocean isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free, the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,

By the pyramid o'ersway'd,

With fearful power the noon-day reigns,

And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,

Unfelt by those whose task is done!

There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might

Along the Indian shore,

And far, by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread,

For those that from their toils are gone;
-There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods,

The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done? There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high

In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,

Like rose-leaves on the breeze.