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Here have I dwelt in glee,

But soon I pass, like thee,

And I return no more.

THE POWER OF THE DEAD.
By Mary Anne Browne.

Say not their power is o'er,
Although their lips be mute, their limbs be still;

With might, unknown before,
Those silent forms the living heart may thrill.

Who stands beside the bed,
Where rests the icy corpse within its shroud,

Nor feels a secret dread,
With which his soul ne'er to the living bow'd?

The lowliest son of earth,
The veriest babe that Death hath smitten down,

Hath to a realm gone forth,
To those who gaze upon them all unknown.

An awful mystery, sealed
From their sad eyes that weep beside their bier,

To them hath been reveal'd,
To their unprison'd souls made plain and clear.

They are the constant sign
Of God's <rreat truth—the dead, both great and small,

Confirm his word divine,
That all have sinn'd, and death hath pass'd on all.

They are the seed from whence
The harvest of the Lord shall fill the earth,

When his omnipotence
Shall bring the myriads from her bosom forth.

Say not their power is o'er
Even when mingling in the lowly dust;

For them our spirits pour
An offering forth, in holy hope and trust.

Where is the place of graves
We deem not hallow'd? There is sanctity

In every wind that waves
Its grasses tall, or stirs its willow-tree.

Where'er some lonely mound
Tells of the spot where mortal relics rest,

At once that spot of ground Our hearts with unseen holiness invest.

Say not they have no power! Perhaps they were our enemies in life,

But now hath come an hour, When endeth all the tumult and the strife.

Another, mightier hand Hath still'd the opposer—anger now may cease;

Who can the truth withstand, That with the dead our hearts should be at peace?

And for the loved and lost,
Their memories move us as nought else may move,

When wildly tempest-tost,
They to the soul as guiding stars may prove.

And many a gentle word
Of precious counsel, all too long despised,

By memory may be stirr'd,
Now to be thought upon, and weigh d and prized.

And when the wayward heart Doubts how it shall some dark temptation shun;

They may decide its part— "So will we do, for so would they have done."

Say not they are no more, Those who the heart with reverence thus can fill;

Say not their power is o'er When thus its traces are around us still!

TELL ME NO MORE.
By Charles Mackay.

Tell me no more amid these silent mountains,
Beneath these green leaves, musical with song,

Lull'd by the whisper of these upland fountains,
The old unvarying tale of guilt and wrong.

Leave me alone one day, with Nature's beauty—
One day—one night—an alien to my care:

The needful rest will nerve my soul to duty,
And give me strength to struggle and to bear.

If it be true that love is born to sorrow,

That hope deceives, and friendship fades away—

Let the sad wisdom slumber till to-morrow,
Nor stand between me and this summer-day.

If I am free to dive in truth's deep ocean,
I will be free to linger on the shore,

To watch the billows in their wild commotion,
And hear far off their melancholy roar.

Pearls for the diver battling with the billows!

Pearls for his mournful pomp and lonely pride !Por me, this day, a harp upon the willows,

And flowers fresh gather'd by the water's side.

TO FANNY ANN.

By Ebenezeb Elliott.

As the flower bloweth,
As the stream floweth,
Daughter of beauty,
Do thou thy duty!
What, though thy morrow
May darken with sorrow?
E'en as light hasteth,
Darkness, too, wasteth;
Morn, then, discloses
Raindrops on roses!

Daughter of beauty,

What, then, is duty?

Time says, "Death knoweth!"

Death says, "Time showeth!"

THE LOVE OF ORION AND DIANA.

A fine passage in H. Horne's dramatic poem Orion.

Above the isle of Chios, night by night,
The clear moon linger'd ever on her course,
Covering the forest foliage, where it swept
In its unbroken breadth along the slopes,
With placid silver, edging leaf and trunk
Where gloom clung deep around; but chiefly sought
With melancholy splendour to illume
The dark-mouth'd cavern where Orion lay
Dreaming among his kinsmen. Ere the breath
Of Phoibos' steeds rose from the wakening sea,
And long before the immortal wheel-spokes cast
Their hazy apparition up the sky
Behind the mountain peaks, pale Artemis left
Her fainting orb, and touch'd the loftiest snows
With feet as pure, and white, and crystal cold,
In the sweet misty woodland, to rejoin
Orion with her Nymphs. And he was blest
In her divine smile, and his life began
A high and newer period, nor the haunts
Of those his giant brethren ever sought,
But shunn'd them and their ways, and slept alone
Upon a verdant rock, while o'er him floated
The clear moon, causing music in his brain
Until the skylark rose. He felt 'twas love.

RESIGNATION.

Translated from the German of Schiller, by Sir E. B. Bulwer

LVTTON.

And I, too, was amidst Arcadia born,

And nature seem'd to woo me;
And to my cradle such sweet joys were sworn;
And I, too, was amidst Arcadia born,

Yet the short spring gave only tears unto me! Life but one blooming holiday can keep—

For me the bloom is fled;
The silent genius of the darker sleep
Turns down my torch—and weep, my brethren, weep-

Weep, for the light is dead!
Upon thy bridge the shadows round me press,

O dread Eternity!
And I have known no moment that can bless;—
Take back this letter meant for happiness—

The seal's unbroken—see!
Before thee, Judge, whose eyes the dark-spun veil

Conceals, my murmur came;
On this our orb a glad belief prevails,
That, thine the earthly sceptre and the scales,

Requiter is thy name.

Terrors, they say, thou dost for vice prepare,

And joys the good shall know;
Thou canst the crooked heart unmask and bare;
Thou canst the riddle of our fate declare,

And keep account with woe.
With thee a home smiles for the exiled one—

There ends the thorny strife.
Unto my side a godlike vision won,
Call'd Truth, (few know her, and the many shun),

And check'd the reins of life.
"I will repay thee in a holier land—

Give thou to me thy youth;
All I can grant thee lies in this command."
I heard, and, trusting in a holier land,

Gave my young joys to Truth.

"Give me thy Laura—give me her whom love

To thy heart's core endears;
The usurer, Bliss, pays every grief—above!"
I tore the fond shape from the bleeding love,

And gave—albeit with tears!
"What bond can bind the dead to life once more?

Poor fool" (the scoffer cries); "Gull'd by the despot's hireling lie, with lore That gives for truth a shadow;—life is o'er

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