He saw increasing on his father's heart,
With the deep deadly thought that they must part.
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised

His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed :

And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,

Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
Into his dying child's mouth! but in vain !
The boy expired—the father held the clay,

And looked upon it long; and when at last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay

Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watched it wistfully, until away

'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; When he himself sank down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs' quivering.

- 30

CHARLES WOLFE.-Born, 1791 ; Died, 1823. Tho Rev. Charles Wolfe was an Irish clergyman. The two exquisite pieces here given are his best compositions. He died of consumption, in 1823, at the age of 32.

THE DEATH OF MARY.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be;

It never through my mind had pass'd,

That time would e'er be o'erWhen I on thee should look

my

last, And thou shouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain ;
But when I speak thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left’st unsaid ;
And now, I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary, thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene,
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smile has been ; While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own,
But there—I lay thee in the grave;
And now

-I

am alone.

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;
And I perhaps may soothe this heart

In thinking still of thee!
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn

And never can restore.

31

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !

I Sir John Moore was the commander of a small British army which was sent into the heart of Spain in 1809 to draw away Napoleon from Madrid. Huge forces of the French having closed in pursuit of him, he could only retreat to the coast, and did so with splendid skill, but he was killed by a cannon shot in the battle of Corunna, the port from which his troops were to sail for England. The French were defeated, but the death of Moore was a heavy price for victory. He was born in 1761, so that he was forty-eight years of age when killed. He was buried within the ramparts of Corunna.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the

grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-

But we left him alone with his glory.

32

P. B. SHELLEY,-Born, 1792 ; Died, 1823 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY was the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart. He was born in 1792, and early showed his rich poetical genius; but his opinions were so extreme in some respects, that it was long before he received the high place he now holds among our poets. He was drowned near Leghorn in 1823, at the age of thirty-one. In private life he was pure, gentle, and lovable.

AUTUMN.-A DIRGE. The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;

And the year
On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of loaves dead,

Is lying
Come, Months, come away,
From November to May;
In your saddest array, —

Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling,

For the year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards, each, gone

To his dwelling.
Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and gray;
Let your light sisters play;
Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.

33

THE RECOLLECTION.
We wandered to the Pine Forest

That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun

A light of Paradise.