With brow so pale, who yester-morn breathed forth

Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss
Into the hearts of others By her side

Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed
Upon the stricken idol, all dismayed
Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nursed
That fair young creature at her gentle breast,
And oft those sunny locks had decked with
buds

Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wiped the dews
Which death distils.

The sufferer just had given Her long farewell, and for the last, last time Touched with cold lips his cheek who led so late

Her footsteps to the altar, and received
In the deep transport of an ardent heart

Her vow of love. And she had striven to press
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand
Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave
At the bright bridal morn. So there she lay
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast
The dreaded bitterness of death had passed.

But a faint wail disturbed the silent scene,
And in its nurse's arms a new-born babe
Was borne in utter helplessness along,
Before that dying eye.

Its gathered film
Kindled one moment with a sudden glow
Of tearless agony, — and fearful pangs,
Racking the rigid features, told how strong
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer,
Went up to Heaven, and, as its cadence sank,
Her spirit entered there.

Morn after morn
Rose and retired; yet still as in a dream
I seemed to move. The certainty of loss
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept
As weep the sisterless. For thou wert fled,
My only, my beloved, my sainted one,
Twin of my spirit! and my numbered days
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour
Which rent thee from me.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

GO TO THY REST.

Go to thy rest, fair child! Go to thy dreamless bed, While yet so gentle, undefiled, With blessings on thy head.

DAY dawned; within a curtained room, Filled to faintness with perfume,

A lady lay at point of doom.

Day closed; a child had seen the light:
But, for the lady fair and bright,
She rested in undreaming night.
Spring rose; the lady's grave was green;
And near it, oftentimes, was seen
A gentle boy with thoughtful mien.
Years fled; he wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race,
And won at last a lofty place.

And then he died! behold before ye
Humanity's poor sum and story;
Life - Death- and all that is of Glory.

BARRY CORNWALL.

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

[The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln. Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in painting his picture at the White House, he was alone one evening with the President in his room, when he said: "There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain."]

O, WHY should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.

As precious gums are not for lasting fire, They but perfume the temple, and expire; So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence, A short sweet odor, of a vast expense. She vanished, we can scarcely say she died; For but a now did heaven and earth divide : She passed serenely with a single breath ; This moment perfect health, the next was death: One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;

The young village maid, when with flowers sho dresses

Her dark-flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee, — Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,

As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue;
Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep :
So softly death succeeded life in her :
She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.

So,

No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise; Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice; As an old friend is beckoned to a feast, And treated like a long-familiar guest. He took her as he found, but found her As one in hourly readiness to go: E'en on that day, in all her trim prepared; As early notice she from heaven had heard, And some descending courier from above Had given her timely warning to remove; Or counselled her to dress the nuptial room, For on that night the bridegroom was to come. He kept his hour, and found her where she lay Clothed all in white, the livery of the day. JOHN DRYDEN.

FAREWELL,-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,

Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell! be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With everything beauteous that grows in the deep;

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber,

We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell!-farewell! -until pity's sweet fountain

Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the

wave.

THOMAS MOORE.

FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.

came,

men in the neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped tra

blowing,

And hushed all its music and withered its frame!!

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With naught but the sea-star to light up her

tomb.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the
old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored

by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore oblized to

meet in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his

carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her

lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the

murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of Madrid."-SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

I WISH I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee !

And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succor me!

O, think ye na my heart was sair,

When my love dropt down and spake nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care,

On fair Kirkconnell lee.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lee,

I lighted down, my sword did draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma,
I hacked him in pieces sma,
For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart forevermair
Until the day I dee!

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste !
If I were with thee I were blest,
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest,

On fair Kirkconnell lee.