That sweetest song,-though in her ears, And this is she who turn'd away And watch'd him with her looks of light, She lies beneath the sylvan woof, And dreams, perhaps, love's blessed dream, And hover round, from prying eyes, For lovers-when they smile-are sad, And hers is but a cheerless tale,- To one of deathless birth, But purchase, with a few bright years, No more-no more-oh! never more, But she, with melancholy eye, Goes, nightly, wandering through the sky; Like one who keeps a mournful tale,— Or like some orphan of the skies, For though she mounts the moving clouds, She, ever, seems alone! And they who love, beneath the stars, yore; And, when they see her sweet, sad eye No more no more, on earthly ground, Save, Howard! through such spells as thine! EVENING. Cut from an old newspaper, no name was attached to it. Ask ye the hour I love the best? The hour of silence and of rest! When day throws off his robes of power, And sinking in the regal west, The dwellings of the sons of men. If there be sounds, they will but be THE DYING GIRL'S REMONSTRANCE. By MARY ANNE Browne. OH! tell me not of sunny lands, with clear and cloudless skies, Where the mountains and the pillar'd domes in antique glory rise: And tell me not of purple vines, and endless summer flowers, Those round our home will serve to light my few remaining hours. Start not, dear mother! do not weep, sweet sister of my heart! Have you not felt the summoning that bids me hence depart? Have ye not read it in mine eyes, and on my sunken brow, Although my lips have ne'er reveal'd 'twas known to me till now? Speak not of hope! I know full well the legend and the song That picture all the charms that to the southern lands belong; And some few months ago, when health was tinging cheek and eye, It had been joy to tread their shores, but not as now-to die: Home, home! it is a blessed sound unto the wanderer's ear, Open the window, sister, let the murmuring western breeze Could have the cheering freshness of mine own dear English air? Bring me that branch of roses! I know their lovely hue! By the bower I planted when a child those graceful blossoms grew; They have a thousand memories blent with their healthful bloom and breath, Of the hours when in my childhood's glee, I little thought of death. Home, home! the sweet word haunts me with its gentle music now, I could not from its quietness to the stranger country go. Where could those limbs so fitly rest as 'neath the verdant sod, By the old church where first I knelt in awe before my God? Whose lips so fervently could read each solemn funeral line, As his, whose hand upon my brow impress'd the hallow'd sign? And, more than all, in what bright land beyond the bounding wave, Could those who loved me come and weep beside my early grave? Ay, lead me to my chamber, these weak limbs have need of rest, Here is the pillow that my cheek from infancy hath press'd Here is the scene of childish dreams, and dreams of elder days, Where I took sweet visions to my heart from the poet's gifted lays ; Now, leave me to my slumber-full soon the time shall be When I shall not need a watching eye, nor a kiss to waken me; Then shall I quit this well-loved spot-and not in vain to roam A stranger in a foreign land, but to find a holier home. THE WRECK. By Mrs. HEMANS. ALL night the booming minute-gun Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark, from India's coral strand, Had veil'd her topsails to the sand, |