3

Brother! my only one,

Beloved from cradle hours;

With whom, beneath the vernal sun,

I wandered when our task was done,
And gathered early flowers;

I cannot come to thee.

Though 'twas so sweet to rest

Upon thy gently guiding arm, thy sympathising breast,

'Tis better here to be.

No disappointments shroud
The angel hours of joy:

Our knowledge hath no cloud,
No limit, no alloy,

The fearful word, to part,
Is never breathed above;
Heaven hath no broken heart;
Call me not hence, my love!

Oh Mother!-he is here,

To whom my soul so grew,

That when death's fatal spear
Stretched him upon his bier,

I fain would follow too.

His smile my infant griefs restrained,
His image in my childish dream,

And o'er my young affections reigned,

In gratitude unuttered and supreme:

But yet, 'till these effulgent skies burst forth in radiant glow,

I knew not half the unmeasured debt a daughter's heart

doth owe.

Ask ye if to his soul the same fond thrill is given?

Oh! yes, and filial love remains unchanged in heaven:

I bend to soothe thy woes;

How near thou canst not see

I watched thy lone repose:

May I not comfort thee?

To comfort I wait-blest mother come to me!

DUTY OF THANKFULNESS TO GOD.

THE spring flowers know their time to bloom;

The summer dews to fall;

The stormy winds to rise and come

At winter's dreary call;

The nightingale knows when to sing

Her midnight melody;

The stranger bird to stretch her wing

Far o'er the distant sea.

The silent stars know when to raise
Their shining lights on high;
The moon to shed her silver rays
From out the azure sky;

The sun his chariot wheels to roll

Toward the golden west;

The tides to flow from pole to pole;

The foaming waves to rest.

Thus wide creation owns a power
Supreme o'er earth and seas,

That portions out some fitting hour

For all His will decrees.

Then, while of nature's works the prime,

Man boasts his nobler call,

Shall he, ungrateful, own no time.

To thank the Lord of all?

THE DYING GIRL'S LAMENT.

WHY does my mother steal away
To hide her struggling tears?

Her trembling touch betrays unchecked

The secret of her fears;

My father gazes on my face

With yearning, earnest eye,—

And yet there's none among them all

To tell me I must die.

My little sisters press around

My sleepless couch, and bring
With eager hands, their garden gift,
The first sweet buds of spring!

I wish they'd lay me where those flowers
Might lure them to my bed,

Where other springs and summers bloom,
And I am with the dead.