And must this parting be our very last?

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,

Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ;

none,

In future time, no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,
Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE MOURNER.

YES! there are real mourners, - I have seen
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claimed,
And to be useful as resigned she aimed;
Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ;

But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep;
Then to her mind was all the past displayed,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;
In every place she wandered, where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave; that place
With double interest would she nightly trace!

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow :
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.

His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message, "Thomas, I must die; Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go!- if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake: Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow

on

"Yes! I must die "--and hope forever fled. Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime

Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching
head:

She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer,
Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,

--

Yet said not so -
"Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ;-
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favorite few ;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people, death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest."
"I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the
sound;

Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above, Neatly engraved, - an offering of her love: For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead ;

She would have grieved, had friends presumed to

spare

The least assistance, 't was her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit:
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hours employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

GEORGE CRABBE

"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home From wind and wave the wanderers come; I only see the tossing foam

Of stranger keels.

TO LUCASTA.

IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that, when I am gone,

You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,

Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage;
For, whether he will let me pass
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,
Our faith and troth,

Like separated souls,

All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet,

Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.

So, then, we do anticipate

Our after-fate,

ROBERT BURNS.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

FROM ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."

I AM undone there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him ev'ry hour; to sit and draw

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table, heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE SUN UPON THE LAKE IS LOW.

THE sun upon the lake is low,

The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long.

Now all whom varied toil and care

From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armor bright.

The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now

For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart,

And to the thicket wanders slow

The hind beside the hart.

The woodlark at his partner's side
Twitters his closing song, -

All meet whom day and care divide,

But Leonard tarries long!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.