And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheekLove, love! of mortal agony

Thou, only thou shouldst speak!

The wind rose high-but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear;
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;
While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low,
Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed!-one smile in death

And his worn spirit pass'd.

While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave
She knelt on that sad spot,

And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!

THE FISHERMAN.

BARRY CORNWALL.

A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be,
Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea,

In the wild waters labouring, far from home,
For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam!
Few friends to cheer him through his dangerous life,
And none to aid him in the stormy strife:
Companion of the sea and silent air,

The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;

Without the comfort, hope-with scarce a friend, He looks through life, and only sees-its end!

Eternal ocean! old majestic sea!

Ever love I from shore to look on thee,

And sometimes on thy biHowy back to ride,
And sometimes o'er thy summer breast to glide:
But let me live on land-where rivers run,
Where shady trees may screen me from the sun;
Where I may feel secure, the fragrant air;
Where (whate'er toil or wearing pains I bear)
Those eyes, which look away all human ill,
May shed on me their still, sweet, constant light,
And the little hearts I love may, day and night,

Be found beside me safe and clustering still.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

MISS BOWLES.

How happily, how happily the flowers die away!
Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they!
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom!
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb!

The gay and glorious creatures! they neither "toil nor spin ;"

Yet lo! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in; No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright Than ever brow of eastern queen endiadem'd with light.

The young rejoicing creatures! their pleasures never pall, Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all!The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy, blessed

air,

Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share.

The happy careless creatures! of time they take no heed; Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed; Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away; Nor when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, "would God that

it were day!"

And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy nature's breast; No pain have they in dying—no shrinking from decay: Oh! could we but return to earth as easily as they !

THE UNKNOWN POET'S GRAVE.

L. E. LANDON.

THERE is no memory of his fate,
No record of his name ;
A few wild songs are left behind-
But what are they to fame?
No one will gaze upon the scene,
Remembering-but there he has been.

Not his the memory that makes
A shrine of every place,
Wherever step or song of his

Had left their deathless trace;

None say

"'twas here his burning line Was dreamed-and hence is all divine."

Yet here thy step has often been,

And here thy songs were sung;
Here were thy beating heart and lute
Chord after chord unstrung;
Thy dying breath was on this air-
It hath not left its music there.

No:-nameless is the lowly spot
Where that young poet sleeps ;
No glory lights its funeral lamp,

No pity on it weeps ;

There weeds may grow, or flowers may bloom, For this is a forgotten tomb.

And yet how often those dark pines
Once heard thy twilight song;

'Twas written on those autumn leaves
The wild winds bear along.

Of all who gaze on Tivoli,

Who is there that remembers thee?

That dark-eyed lady, she who taught
Thy most impassioned tone;
The spirit of thy poetry-

Her fate has been thine own:
A weary brow, a faded cheek,
A heart that only beat to break.

Thy friends-thou wert too delicate
For many to be thine;

And like words written on the sands
Are those on Friendship's shrine:
A few set words, a few vain tears,
And so is clos'd the faith of years.

The world it had no part in thee;
Too sensitive to bear
Unkindness or repulse; too true
The usual mask to wear;
Alas! the gold too much refined,
Is not for common use designed.

Thy dreams of fame were vague and void,

The mystery of a star,

Whose glory lifted us from earth,

The beautiful, the far!