MARY STEELE.

SHE was of heaven, though an earthly creature,
A gladsome beauty lived in her bright eye,
A sweet simplicity was in each feature,

A look as mild as summer's sunset sky,
Her scarlet lips were bright as ocean coral,

And fairy freckles like the cow-slip's specks On her white face, her spotless soul was moral, Pure as the cup the lily stalk that decks; Gloom, never threw a shadow on her heart,

She lived like plants that bloom a day, and die, She knew not of the world, its guile and art,

She came like morning's breeze, and died like evening's sigh

Then sing for her no mournful hymn

No melancholy lay,

No wail from solemn cloisters dim,

By friars sad and grey

Let not the-deep toned bell
From tall cathedrals peal,
No organ anthem swell

For gentle Mary Steele.

Let the wild thrush, in Pond Creek's lonely shade,
Sing her sweet dirge where daylight's self seems dark;

And from green meadows, for the gentle maid,
A hymn shall rise from golden-breasted lark;
Around her simple tomb

Hang no dark signs of woe,

No mournful monuments of gloom,
But there let flowers blow.

The gold-eyed violet, in velvet blue,
The wild rose with its leaflets red,
The larkspur, drinking heaven's dew,

The blue-bell, nodding on her emerald bed;
And hard by let the giant poplars stand,
Holding their arms up to the azure sky,
And silently o'erlooking all the land,
Bowing to angels as they wing them by.
Weep not for her she never thought a wrong,
She never dreamed an ill to any mortal;
And liveth now, a spirit 'mid the throng
That crowd around yon bright celestial portal,
Where the Great One, supremely good,
Whose look dispenses bliss and ecstasy,
And like the bright sun's ever-pouring flood
Spreads beams of gladness like a golden sea.

In that glad realm where sorrow's wounds all heal, And happiness, with vast o'erarching wings, Through which the stars their shining lights reveal,

Doth lean on peace, while every angel sings— There doth she stand, with sister seraphs shining

All crowned with light, with rainbows bending o'er, Where never comes a voice of sad repiningBut cherubs chant God's praises evermore.

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AMELIA.”

AH! lovely shade, where beauty's image sleeping
Rests like the sunlight on the crimson rose,
And round that mouth the happy smile is creeping,
And voiceless joys their silent watch are keeping,

O'er happiness there pillowed with repose.

Thy neck of snow each dark brown lock encumbers, Light as the shadow of a gossamer;

As some dark lake, with waves in countless numbers, Sweeps in soft swells, yet in its swelling slumbers, Rolls without ripple, sleeping seems to stir.

And then that eye so beauteous in its beaming,
A pool of shade, by willows overhung,

106 LINES UPON A PICTURE OF "AMELIA."

From whose dark depths a cheerful light comes stream

ing,

As might the rays of cottage fires gleaming
Across a wanderer's midnight path be flung.

But ah! there is no power of unfolding,

That smile of light when joy plays o'er thy cheek,
And ivory brow; that magic casket holding
Its countless gems, inlaid by fairy moulding,
Which fall like rose-leaves ever as you speak.

And then thy voice with merry laughter ringing,
Makes life when thou art near, a luxury,
And, like an angel, light around him flinging,
The winged joys fly from thy lips in singing,
And echo answers with his song of glee.

Ah! could the world unlock thy mental treasures,
What flashing jewels then would meet the gaze!
The poet's harp, attuned to happy measures,

All hung with flowers, as sweet as heaven's pleasures-
Bright blossoms blooming under greenest bays.

Thy mind's a picture, past all mortal prizing,
A revelation, an enchanted book,

Where thoughts on thoughts, like stars in their uprising,
Come forth in beauty, matchless and surprising,
And danced all doubled in thine eye's dark brook.