Where is the place of your abode, ye dead ?
To what far regions have your spirits gone ?
But ye are silent-silent as the stone
That gathers moss above your bed of rest,
And from the land of souls returneth none
To tell us of the place to which we haste;
But time will tell us all and time will tell us best.

How still-how soft-and yet how dread is all The scene around !--the silent earth and air ! What glorious lamps are hung in Night's high hall! Her dome-so vast, magnificent, and fair ! Oh! for an angel's wing to waft me there ! How sweet, methinks, e'en for one little day, To leave this cold, dull sphere of cloud and care, And, midst the immortal bowers above, to stray In lands of light and love-unblighted by decay !

Surely there is a language in the skyA voice that speaketh of a world to come ; It swells from out thy depths, Immensity ! And tells us this is not our final home. As the toss'd bark, amidst the ocean's foam, Hails, through the gloom, the beacon o'er the

wave; So from life's troubled sea, o'er which we roam, The stars, like beacon-lights beyond the grave, Shine through the deep, o'er which our barks we

hope to save !

Now gleams the moon on Arthur's mighty crest, That dweller of the air-abrupt and lone ; Hush'd is the city in her nightly rest ; But hark !--there comes a sweet and solemn tone, The lingering strains, that swell'd in ages gone, The music of the wake-oh! many an ear, Raised from the pillow gentle sleep hath flown, Lists with delight, while blend the smile and tear, As recollections rise of many a vanish'd year.

It speaks of former scenes of days gone by Of early friendships—of the loved and lostAnd wakes such music in the heart, as sigh Of evening wooes from harp-strings gently crost; And thoughts and feelings crowda varied host, O'er the lone bosom from their slumbers deep, Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost, Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep, And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep!

BARRY CORNWALL.

SONG.
Thou shalt sing to me

When the waves are sleeping,

And the winds are creeping
'Round the embowering chestnut tree.

Thou shalt sing by night,

When no birds are calling,

And the stars are falling
Brightly from their mansions bright.

Of those thy song shall tell

From whom we've never parted,

The young, the tender-hearted,
The gay, and all who loved us well.

But we'll not profane

Such a gentle hour,

Nor our favourite bower,
With a thought that tastes of pain.

WOMAN.

GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume :
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair.

And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality ;
And the smile that play'd round her lip has filed,
And every charm has now left the dead.

Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.
-And this is man's fidelity!

'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE MARINER'S SONG.
A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast ;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

"O! for a soft and gentle wind,"

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high ;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free, The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud ;
And hark the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud ;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free,
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

BOWRING.

FROM THE SERVIAN. AGAINST white Buda's walls a vine Doth its white branches fondly twine : O no! it was no vine-tree there It was a fond and faithful pair Bound each to each in earliest vow, And O! they must be sever'd now; And these their farewell words :-" We part ! Break from my bosom--break my heart ! Go to a garden-go and see Some rose-branch blushing on the tree, And from that branch a rose-flower tear, Then place it in thy bosom bare ; And as its leaflets fade and pine, So fades my sinking heart in thine.” And thus the other spoke :-" My love! A few short paces backward move, And to the verdant forest go; There's a fresh water-fount below, And in the fount a marble stone Which a gold cup reposes on, And in the cup a ball of snow : Love ! take that ball of snow to rest Upon thine heart, within thy breast ; And as it melts unnoticed there, So melts my heart in thine, my dear.”