"That tune e'er held his soul in thrall ;

It never breathed in vain ;

He'll waken as its echoes fall,

Or never wake again."

The strings were swept. 'T was sad to hear Sweet music floating there;

For every note called forth a tear

Of anguish and despair.

"See! see!" she cried, "the tune is o'er :

No opening eye, no breath; Hang up his harp; he'll wake no more ; He sleeps the sleep of death.'

ELIZA COOK.

BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING.

BEYOND the smiling and the weeping I shall be soon;

Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the blooming and the fading I shall be soon ;

Beyond the shining and the shading, Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon ;

Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the gathering and the strowing
I shall be soon;

Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,
Beyond the coming and the going,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon;

Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever beating,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the frost chain and the fever

I shall be soon;

Beyond the rock waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

HORATIUS BONAR.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearing awa', Jean,

Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;
I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;
Your task 's ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean :
O, we grudged her right sair
To the land o' the leal!

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal!
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be fain
In the land o' the leal.

CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN.

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

SOFTLY woo away her breath,

Gentle death!

Let her leave thee with no strife,
Tender, mournful, murmuring life !
She hath seen her happy day,

She hath had her bud and blossom;
Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom !
She hath done her bidding here,
Angels dear!

Bear her perfect soul above,
sweet love!
Seraph of the skies,
Good she was, and fair in youth;
And her mind was seen to soar,
And her heart was wed to truth:
Take her, then, forevermore,
Forever evermore!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
(BARRY CORNWALL.)

ON THE DEATH OF A DAUGHTER.

"T IS o'er, in that long sigh she pastTh' enfranchised spirit soars at last!

And now I gaze with tearless eye
On what to view was agony.
That panting heart is tranquil now,
And heavenly calm that ruffled brow,
And those pale lips which feebly strove
To force one parting smile of love,
Retain it yet, — soft, placid, mild,
As when it graced my living child.

O, I have watched with fondest care
To see my opening flow'ret blow,
And felt the joy which parents share,
The pride which fathers only know.

And I have sat the long, long night,
And marked that tender flower decay ;
Not torn abruptly from the sight,

But slowly, sadly, waste away!
The spoiler came, yet paused, as though
So meek a victim checked his arm,
Half gave and half withheld the blow,
As forced to strike, yet loath to harm.

We saw that fair cheek's fading bloom
The ceaseless canker-worm consume,
And gazed on hopelessly,
Till the mute suffering pictured there
Wrung from the father's lip a prayer,
O God! the prayer his child might die.

Ay, from his lip- the doting heart E'en then refused to bear its part.

But the sad conflict's past, - 't is o'er;
That gentle bosom throbs no more!
The spirit's freed, -through realms of light
Faith's eagle-glance pursues her flight

To other worlds, to happier skies ;
Hope dries the tear which sorrow weepeth,
No mortal sound, the voice which cries,
"The damsel is not dead, but sleepeth!"

RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
(THOMAS INGOLDSBY).

WE WATCHED HER BREATHING.

WE watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,