TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY.

BRILLIANT and beautiful!—And can it be
That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light-
Upon thy lips no sound?-I little deemed
At our last parting, when thy cheering voice
Breathed the soul's harmony, what shadowy form
Then rose between us, and with icy dart

Wrote, "Ye shall meet no more." I little deemed
That thy elastic step, Death's darkened vale

Would tread before me.

Friend, I shrink to say

Farewell to thee. In youth's unclouded morn,

We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower,
And win it for our pleasure, or our pride.
But when the stern realities of life

Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms
Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes
A healing essence, and a strengthening charm,
Next to the hope of heaven. Such was thy love,
Departed and deplored. Talents were thine,
Lofty and bright, the subtle shaft of wit,

And that keen glance of intellect which reads,
Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs

Of human action. Yet such meek regard
For other's feelings, such a simple grace
And singleness of purpose, such respect
To woman's noiseless duties, sweetly bow'd,
And tempered those high gifts, that every heart,
Which feared their splendor, loved their goodness too.
I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls
Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone
Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld
Their bright expansion through each ripening year.
To them the sacred name of daughter, blent
All images of comforter and friend,
The fire-side charmer, and the nurse of pain,
Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings.
What shall console their sorrow, when young morn
Upriseth in its beauty, but no smile

Of filial love doth mark it?-or when eve

Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone,
So long the treasure of their listening heart,
Uttereth no music?

Ah!-so frail are we

So like the brief ephemeron that wheels

Its momentary round, we scarce can weep
Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share
The clay with those we mourn. A narrow point
Divides our grief-sob from our pang of death:

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY.

Down to the mouldering multitude we go,

And all our anxious thoughts, our fevered hopes,
The sorrowing burdens of our pilgrimage

In deep oblivion rest.

Then let the woes

And joys of earth be to the deathless soul
Like the spent dew-drop from the eagle's wing,
When, waking in his strength, he sunward soars.

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THE WAR SPIRIT.

WAR-SPIRIT! war-spirit! how gorgeous thy path,
Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath:
The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,
To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,
With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpet's wild cry,
While the fold of their banners gleams bright o'er the sky.

Thy glories are sought till the life-throb is o'er,
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore;
'Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time,
The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,
And history her annal emblazons with thine.

War-spirit! war-spirit! thy secrets are known,

I have looked on the field when the battle was done
The mangled and slain in their misery lay,

And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey;
But the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,
In the homes that those loved ones revisit no more.

I have traced out thy march by its features of pain,
While famine and pestilence stalked in thy train,
And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,

And thy breath on the soul was the plague-spot of hell;
Death lauded thy deeds, and in letters of flame
The realm of perdition recorded thy name.

War spirit! war spirit! go down to thy place,
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast opened be dried-
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,
And yield the torn world to the angel of peace.

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