Unsullied as the morning dew,
Descend, and all thy soul imbue.

Yes! like the blossoms of the waste
Would we the sky-born waters taste,
To the High Fountain's sacred spring
The chalice let us humbly bring:
So shall we find the streams of heaven
To him who seeks are freely given;
The morning and the evening dew
Shall still our failing strength renew.

A CYPRESS LEAF,

FOR THE GRAVE OF A DEAR ONE.

THE feelings I have felt have died away,

The love that was my lamp death's dews have

quench'd;

The faith which, through life's ills, ne'er knew

decay,

Hath in the chill showers of the grave been drench'd;

The hopes that buoyed my spirit 'mid the spray

Of life's wild ocean, one by one are wrench'dCruelly wrench'd away, and I am now

A solitary leaf on a rent bough!

The link that knit me to mankind is snapp'dBriefly it bound me to a callous world;

The fortress of my comfort hath been sapp'd-
Where are Joy's banners, lightsomely unfurl'd,
That graced the battlements? In vapor wrapp'd
In the dense smoke of stifled breath upcurl'd,
They drop in tatters-forming now a pall
For the sad mummy-heart that drips with gall.

I have not now of broken troth to wail,

I have not now to speak of friendship broken; Of Death and Death's wild triumphs is my taleOf friendship faithful, and of love's last token, A ring!-whose holy motto ne'er shall fail

To rouse such sorrow as may ne'er be spoken, That pictured Dove and Branch-those words, 'La Paix!'

(O direful mockery!) wear my heart away!*

'Peace?'-Peace! alas, there is no peace for me! It rests with thee, beloved one! in the grave Yet, when I search the cells of Memory,

Where silently the subterranean wave Of buried hope glides on, a thought of theeLike sunshine on the hermit's darkened caveSteals gently o'er my spirit, whispering sweet Of realms beyond the tomb, where we shall meet!

*A melancholy anecdote is attached to these lines; the motto 'LA PAIX' was engraven on the bequeathed gift of a beloved friend, who, in the bloom of youth fell a victim to a sudden and violent death in India.

Our love-how did it spring? In sooth it grew
Even as some rare exotic in a clime
Unfriendly to its growth: yet rich in hue,
Voluptuous in fragrance, as if Time
Had been to it all sunlight and soft dew,-
As if upon its freshness the cold rime

Of death should never fall! How came it then?
Even as the manna fell 'midst famish'd men.

To be snatch'd up in transport! And we fed
Upon affection's banquet, that ne'er pall'd
Upon the spirit's palate! Friendship shed

A light around our bosoms which recall'd
The memory of that bard, whose soul was wed-
With love surpassing woman's love, ungall'd
By selfish doubts-to him, the monarch's son,
Brave Jonathan! Like their's, our souls were one!

Oh! long we loved in silence! Neither spake Of that which work'd the thoughtful mine within;

Thou didst not guess that, sleeping or awake, My thoughts were full of thee till thought grew sin:

For it is sin of earthly things to make

Our idols! and I never hoped to win Thy coveted affection; but for me, Thy heart was also yearning silently!

I was the first to speak-and words there were, Wild words, that painted fond affection's

course ;

O! what indeed will erring tongues not dare, When conquering Feeling prompts! Like winds that force

From wind-harps mystic sounds, the lips declare,
Thoughts that are often follow'd by remorse;
For passion hath a potency that breaks
Each puny bulwark callous Reason makes!

But our's was Friendship's purest worship-pure, Altho' that worship bowed at earthly shrines, Alas! that hearts on altars insecure

Should sacrifice their all of bliss! There twines

O'er mankind's sweetest hopes corruption sure, To blast their beauty e'en whilst most it

shines!

'Tis but to teach us there are worlds above, Where Hope fruition finds in endless Love!

WILD FLOWERS.

BY JOHN KEATS.

I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill;
The air was cooling, and so very still,

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Fell droopingly in slanting curve aside,
Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems
Had not yet lost their starry diadems,

Caught from the early sobbings of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new

shorn,

And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they

slept

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o'er ne green.
There was wide wandering for the greediest eye.
To peer about upon variety;

Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
To picture out the quaint and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending :
Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves,
Guess where the janty streams refresh them.
selves.