And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around the parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh! earth.

THE LOST SISTER OF WHYOMING.

Anon.

"'TWAS eve: a little circle sat

Around the cottage hearth;

Youth's voice and rose-buds lips were there, But not its tones of mirth!

But few and lone were all the words
Of that lone fire-side ring;

It seemed as though their spirits dwelt
Upon some fearful thing.

Had death been in that forest-home,
To call the loved away ?

Was it for this that mother wept,
From eve till break of day?

No; though they missed the baby-voice
And little dimpled hand;

Death in his quiver hath no dart

Like that which pierced that band.

They missed her when the morning came
To wake the voice of birds;

She was not there to mock their song
With her half-uttered words.

She was not there with acorn-cups
Beside the woodland rill;
Calling aloud to hear her voice
Re-echo from the hill.

They had been there-the forest-men;
And from her mother's breast,
They tore the darling of her love,
The warbler from its nest.

And in the chambers of the soul
One picture memory laid;
A child-one hand among her curls,
The other stretched for aid!

INVOCATION.

Bemans.

THOU art come from the spirit's land, thou bird!

Thou art come from the spirit's land!

Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be

heard,

And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore;

And we know that the friends we have lost are there,

They are there-and they weep no more!

And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst

From the fountain of youth ere now,

For there must the stream in its freshness burst, Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth Though their hearts were once with ours:

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,

And bent with us the bow;

And heard the tales of our father's days,
Which are told to others now.

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain !
Can those who have loved, forget?
We call and they answer not again-
Do they love-do they love us yet?

Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?

And the chief of those who were wont to share
His wanderings through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still ?

THE CHURCHYARD.

Bowring's Russian Anthology.

FIRST VOICE.

How frightful the grave! how deserted and

drear,

With the howls of the storm-wind-the creaks of the bier,

And the white bones all clattering together.

SECOND VOICE.

How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep; Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flow'rets perfume it with ether.

FIRST VOICE.

There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a

bed,

And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

SECOND VOICE.

How lovely, how lone, the repose of the tomb! No tempests are there, but the nightingales

come

And sing their sweet chorus of bliss!

FIRST VOICE.

The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave,

'Tis the vulture's abode-'tis the wolf's dreary

cave,

Where they tear up the earth with their

fangs.

SECOND VOICE.

There the coney at evening disports with his

love,

Or rests on the sod-while the turtles above Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

FIRST VOICE.

There darkness and dampness, with poisonous breath

And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death; The trees are all barren and bare!

SECOND VOICE.

O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violets wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamine fair.