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DEATH OF AN INFANT.
“ Is it where the feather-palm trees rise,
“ Is it far away, in some region old,
“ Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
There spake a wishful tenderness,-a doubt
--With ruthless haste he bound
For ever, there had been a murturing sound
TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.
Charming her even to tears.—The spoiler set
So fix'd and holy from that marble brow,-
TO THE MEMORY OF A FIREND AND
“ Blessed are the pure in heart, forthey shall see God."
We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing,
And the first dush of blossom clothes each bough,
Soft as thy smile—thou wouldst be with us now!
Could our food gaze but follow where thou art,
To the one promise given the pure in heart.
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith;
Needed but guarding from all change, by death.
Never was care one fteeting shade to cast,
A boly stream, untroubled to the last !
A wealth of records and sweet · feelings given,'
By whispers breathing • less of earth than heaven.'
Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom
Thy step the paths of joyous duty trod,
Where chastened thought may offer praise to God!
«While day arises, that sweet hour of prime."
thousands are awakening now !
And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And some in the gloomy convict cell,
note of the warning bell,
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.
So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
But ONE must the sound be, and One the call,
THE GRAVE OF A POETESS. *
“Ne me plaignez pas--si vous sayiez combien de peines ce tombeaux m'a epargnees!”
I STOOD beside thy lonely grave;
Spring odours breathed around,
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanced by,
Through the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough
That fringed the ruins near ;
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
« Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shade over it. It is the very spot for the grave of a poetess."
Tales by the O'Hara family. 198
THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.
And mournful grew my heart for thee
Thou in whose woman's mind
The light of song was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Of this world's vernal dawn !
Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have loved so well,
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
And thou wert passed away!
-But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have looked ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below!
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is Earth !
No haunting dream hath birth?