Perennial, undisturb'd and clear,

Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer,
And wake his grateful thought?

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold

The worldling's pomp, and miser's gold,
Obtains a richer prize,

Than he, who in his cot at rest,

Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest,

And bears the promise in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?

12*

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER WHILE ABSENT AT SCHOOL.*

SWEET Sister! is it so? And shall I see

Thy face on earth no more? And didst thou breathe The last sad pang of agonising life

Upon a stranger's pillow? No kind hand,

Of parent or of kindred near, to press

Thy throbbing temples, when the shuddering dew
Stood thick upon them? And they say my name
Hung on thy lips 'mid the chill, parting strife.
Ah!-those were hallowed memories that could stir
Thy bosom thus in death. The tender song
Of cradle-nurture-the low, lisping prayer,
Learned at our mother's knee-the childish sport,
The gift divided, and the parted cake-

Our walk to school amid the dewy grass

Our sweet flower-gatherings-all those cloudless hours
Together shared, did wake a love so strong
That Time must yield it to Eternity

For its full crown. Would it had been my lot
But with one weeping prayer to gird thy heart
* Written at the request of her bereaved brother.

For its last conflict. Would that I had seen

That peaceful smile which Death did leave thy clay

After his conquest o'er it. But the turf

On thy lone grave was trodden, while I deemed
Thee meekly musing o'er the classic page,

Loving and loved, amid the studious band

As erst I left thee.

Sister!-toils and ills

Henceforth are past-for knowledge without pain,
A free translucent, everlasting tide,

O'erflows thy spirit. Thou no more hast need
Of man's protecting arm, for thou may'st lean
On His unchanging throne who was thy trust,
Even from thine early days.

'Tis well! 'tis well!

Saviour of souls! I thank thee for her bliss.

THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD

YON pilgrim see, in vestments gray,
Whose bleeding feet bedew his way,
O'er arid sands, with want opprest,
Who, toiling, knows no place of rest:
Mourn ye, because the long-sought shrine
He clasps in ecstacy divine,

And lays his load of sin and gloom
Repentant on a Saviour's tomb?

-Behold yon ship, with wrecking form
Her proud masts quivering to the storm,
Rude winds and waves with headlong force
Impel her on her dangerous course;
The pallid crew their hope resign,

And powerless view the surging brine:
Mourn ye, because the tempest dies,
And in the haven moor'd she lies?
-Emerging from the field of strife
Where slaughter'd thousands waste their life,
Yon warrior see, with gushing veins,

Who scarce his frantic steed restrains;

The death-mist swims before his eyes

As toward the well known spot he flies,
Where every fond affection lies.
Mourn ye, because to home restor❜d,
Woman's white arms enwrap her lord,
And tears and smiles with varying grace
Fleet o'er his cherub children's face?
-Yet on his path of toil and woe,
The pilgrim from his shrine must go,
The ship amid the billows strain,
The warrior seek the war again :

But he, whose form to death has bow'd,
Whose spirit cleaves the ethereal cloud,
From him hath change and sorrow fled,
-Why mourn ye, then, the righteous dead?