STANZAS.

T. K. HERVEY.

SLUMBER lie soft on thy beautiful eye!
Spirits whose smiles are-like thine-of the sky,
Play thee to sleep with their visionless strings,
Brighter than thou-but because they have wings!
-Fair as a being of heavenly birth,

But loving and loved as a child of the earth!

Why is that tear? Art thou gone, in thy dream,
To the valley far off, and the moon-lighted stream,
Where the sighing of flowers, and the nightingale's song,
Fling sweets on the wave, as it wanders along?
Blest be the dreams that restore them to thee
But thou art the bird and the roses to me!

And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone,
And hear thy low breathing, and know thee mine own,
And muse on the wishes that grew in that vale,
And the fancies we shaped from the river's low tale,
I blame not the fate that has taken the rest,
While it left to my bosom its dearest and best.

Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye,
Love be a rainbow to brighten thy sky!

Oh! not for sunshine and hope would I part

With the shade time has flung over all—but thy heart!
Still art thou all which thou wert when a child,
Only more holy-and only less wild!

REMEMBER ME.

ANONYMOUS.

REMEMBER me, when summer friends surround thee, And honied flatteries gain thy willing ear;

When fame and fortune's glittering wreaths have crown'd thee,

And all is thine thy fickle heart holds dear,

Then think of her whose changeless fortunes bless'd

thee,

When hope was dark, and faithful friends were few, Who, when hard griping poverty depress'd thee,

And all beside seem'd cold, was kind and true.

Remember me, in courtly hall and bower,

And when thou kneel'st at some fond beauty's shrine, Ask of the past, if through life's varying hour, Its joys and griefs, her love can equal mine! And when thy youthful hopes are most excited, Should she prove false, and break her faith like thee, Think of the hopes thy wayward love hath blighted, And from that lesson learn to feel for me!

Remember me, and oh! when fate hath 'reft thee,

Of fame and fortune, friends and love, and bliss, Come back to one thou know'st would ne'er have left

thee,

And she'll but chide thy falsehood with a kiss!

But no, no, no, I feel that life is waning,

That what I was I never more can be,-
That I am fast on that sweet haven gaining,
Where there is rest for e'en a wretch like me!

Remember me! thou canst not sure refuse me,

The only boon from thee I've sought, or seek; Soon will the world, with bitter taunts, accuse me, Yet wake no blushes on my bloodless cheek! But I would have thee tender to my fame,

When I have 'scaped life's dark tumultuous sea; And howsoe'er unkinder spirits blame,

As what thou know'st I was, REMEMBER ME!

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN,
On Chantrey's Monument at Lichfield.

'MRS. HEMANS.

Thus lay

The gentle babes, thus girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms.-Shakspeare.

FAIR images of sleep!

Hallow'd, and soft, and deep;
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells

Of flowers in mossy dells,

Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies;

How many hearts have felt

Your silent beauty melt

Their strength to gushing tenderness away!
How many sudden tears,

From depths of buried years

All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway!

How many eyes will shed
Still, o'er your marble bed,

Such drops, from Memory's troubled fountains wrung! While Hope hath blights to bear,

While Love breathes mortal air, While roses perish ere to glory sprung.

Yet, from a voiceless home,

If some sad mother come

To bend and linger o'er your lovely rest;
As o'er the cheek's warm glow,

And the soft breathings low

Of babes, that grew and faded on her breast;

If then the dovelike tone

Of those faint murmurs gone,
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair,

And brow and bosom fair,

And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;

O gentle forms entwined

Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink;
Send from your calm profound

A still small voice, a sound

Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink.

By all the pure meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,

By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die!
O'er her worn spirit shed,

O fairest, holiest Dead!

The Faith, Trust, Light, of Immortality!

LATE REPENTANCE.

W. KENNEDY.

WOULD that the hour you call'd me thine,
Deserted girl, had been our last!

Before the star had ceased to shine

Whose influence then was o'er us cast. Would that we had not linger'd here, But, in the stillness of that dream, Floated to some less troubled sphere, Like rose leaves down a summer stream.

Thy heart to loneliness and grief

Then had not been an early prey;

Nor had I felt my fond belief
In life's illusion fade away.

Oh! more-I had not lived to mourn
The choice I in my madness made
Of toys by folly won and worn,

Which left for banish'd peace a shade.

The world-my uncomplaining love—
The world I wooed-avenged thee well-
The golden shower I prized above
Thy young affection on me fell.

The hand of power, the voice of fame,
In later days have both been mine;
But never have I felt the same

In heart as when you call'd me thine.