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"T was she who sang me many a rhyme,

And told me many a tale,

And many a legend of old time

That made my spirit quail.

There are a thousand pleasant sounds

Around our cottage still

The torrent that before it bounds,
The breeze upon the hill,

The murmuring of the wood-doves' sigh,
The swallow in the eaves,
And the wind that sweeps a melody
In passing from the leaves,
And the pattering of the early rain,
The opening flowers to wet,-
But they want my sister's voice again,
To make them sweeter yet.

We stood around her dying bed,
We saw her blue eyes close;
While from her heart the pulses fled,
And from her cheek the rose.
And still her lips in fondness moved,
And still she strove to speak
To the mournful beings that she loved,
And yet she was too weak;

Till at last from her eye came one bright ray, That bound us like a spell;

And as her spirit pass'd away,

We heard her sigh-" farewell!"

And oft since then that voice hath come
Across my heart again;

And it seems to speak as from the tomb,
And bids me not complain:

And I never hear a low soft flute,
Or the sound of a rippling stream,
Or the rich deep music of a lute,
But it renews my dream,

And brings the hidden treasures forth

That lie in memory's store;

And again to thoughts of that voice gives birth-
That voice I shall hear no more.

No more!-it is not so-my hope
Shall still be strong in Heaven-
Still search around the spacious scope
For peace and comfort given.
We know there is a world above,
Where all the blessed meet,
Where we shall gaze on those we love,
Around the Saviour's feet;
And I shall hear my sister's voice
In holier, purer tone-

With all those spotless souls rejoice,
Before the Eternal Throne.

MISS MARY ANNE BROWNE.

THE WIFE.

"How much the wife is dearer than the bride."

Lord Lyttleton.

SHE stood beside him in the spring-tide hour
When Hymen lit with smiles the nuptial bow'r,
A downcast, trembling girl;-whose pulse was stirr'd
By the least murmur, like a frighten'd bird;
Timid, and shrinking from each stranger's gaze,
And blushing when she heard the voice of praise,
She clung to him as some superior thing,
And soar'd aloft upon his stronger wing!

Now mark the change:-when storm-clouds gather fast,

And man, creation's lord, before the blast

Shrinks like a parch'd scroll or with'ring leaf,
And turns revolting from the face of grief-
When, in despair, his scarce uplifted eye,
Sees foes who linger, fancied friends who fly-
Woman steps forth, and boldly braves the shock,
Firm to his interests as the granite rock;
SHE stems the wave, unshrinking meets the storm,
And wears his guardian angel's earthly form!
And if she cannot check the tempest's course,
She points a shelter from its 'whelming force!
When envy's sneer would coldly blight his name,
And busy tongues are sporting with his fame,
Who solves each doubt-clears every mist away,
And makes him radiant in the face of day?
She who would peril fortune, fame, and life,
For man, the ingrate-THE DEVOTED WIFE.

MRS. C. B. WILSON.

THE WATER-LILY.

-The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black and scrowling waves.-Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.

OH! beautiful thou art,

Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.

Bright Lily of the wave! Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell:

Lifting alike thy head

Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower,

The gentle and the firm; thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower?

Oh! Love is most like thee,
The Love of Woman; quivering to the blast
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast,
'Midst Life's dark sea.

And Faith-oh! is not Faith
Like thee, too, Lily? springing into light,
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath?

Yes, link'd with such high thoughts,
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie!
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought:

Something yet more divine
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed,
As from a shrine.

MRS. HEMANS.

EPITAPH ON MISS DRUMMOND,

IN THE CHURCH OF BROADSWORTH, YORKSHIRE.

HERE sleeps what once was beauty, once was grace; Grace, that with tenderness and sense combined To form that harmony of soul and face,

Where beauty shines the mirror of the mind.

Such was the maid, that, in the morn of youth,
In virgin innocence, in nature's pride,

Bless'd with each art that owes its charms to truth,
Sunk in her father's fond embrace, and died.
He weeps; O venerate the holy tear!

Faith lends her aid to ease affliction's load;
The parent mourns his child upon the bier,
The Christian yields an angel to his God.

MASON.

THE NATURAL BEAUTY.

WHETHER Stella's eyes are found
Fix'd on earth or glancing round,
If her face with pleasure glow,
If she sigh at others' woe,
If her easy air express

Conscious worth or soft distress,
Stella's eyes, and air, and face,
Charm with undiminish'd grace.

If on her we see display'd
Pendent gems, and rich brocade;
If her chints with less expense
Flows in easy negligence;

Still she lights the conscious flame,
Still her charms appear the same:
If she strikes the vocal strings,
If she's silent, speaks, or sings,
If she sit, or if she move,
Still we love, and still approve.

Vain the casual, transient glance,
Which alone can please by chance,
Beauty which depends on art,
Changing with the changing heart,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
Pendent gems and rich brocade.

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