THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. WHY do I weep?-to leave the vine, I leave thee, sister—we have played I leave thee, father!-Eve's bright moon With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thy homeward steps to greet! Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, Lay tones of love so deep, Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled,— Mother! I leave thee!-on thy breast, Pouring out joy and woe, I have found that holy place of rest Still changeless-yet I go! Lips that have lulled me with your strain, Eyes that have watched my sleep; Will earth give love like yours again?— Sweet mother, let me weep! Morning Chronicle. HOLY ROOD. THE moonlight fell like pity o'er the walls But seeks communion with that other state, In which it may conceal its strife of thought, But it is utterly changed: No incense rises, save some chance wild-flower Breathes grateful to the air; no hymn is heard, No sound, but the bat's melancholy wings; And desolation breathes from all around. And thus it is with links of destiny: L. E. L. THE MOON. THE moon is sailing o'er the sky, Earth is her mirror, and the stars But what of this? she is alone. Where are those who may share with thee I cannot choose but pity thee, I'd rather be the meanest flower To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me. Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death; And be a solitary there. Literary Gazette. L. E. L BY THE REV. J. WOLFE. IF I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be: And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, But when I speak, thou dost not say And now I feel, as well I may, If thou would'st stay even as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own, But there I lay thee in thy grave— And I am now alone! I do not think, where'er thou art, And I perhaps may soothe this heart, In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, WOMAN. BY THE REV. E. BARNARD. On thou, by heaven ordained to be From thy sweet lip one tender sigh, Be angel-minded, and despise Thy sex's little vanities; And let not Passion's lawless tide Thy better purpose sweep aside : For woe awaits the evil hour, That lends to man's annoy thy heaven-entrusted power. Woman! 'tis thine to cleanse his heart From every gross unholy part: Thine, in domestic solitude, To win him to be wise and good: His pattern, friend, and guide to be- COMPARISON. THOSE withered leaves along the cold ground spread, When years have mourned it in the silent tomb; Where virtue sleeps, that time cannot consume. The good man dies, but with his parting breath Bequeaths the world a sweet that knows no death. |