Then decently spread over all a shroud;
And sitting with a look of lingering love
Intense in tearless passion, rose at length,
And pressing both her hands upon her brow,
Gave loose to all her gushing grief in showers,
Which, as a fountain seal'd till it had swellid
To its last fulness, now gave way and flow'd
In a deep stream of sorrow. She grew calm,
And parting back the curtains, look'd abroad
Upon the moonlight loveliness, all sunk
In one unbroken silence, save the moan
From the lone room of death, or the dull sound
Of the slow-moving hearse. The homes of men
Were now all desolate, and darkness there,
And solitude and silence took their seat
In the deserted streets, as if the wing
Of a destroying angel had gone by,
And blasted all existence, and had changed
The gay, the busy, and the crowded mart
To one cold, speechless city of the dead.

THE DESERTED WIFE.

He comes not-I have watch'd the moon go down, But yet he comes not-Once it was not so. He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow, The while he holds his riot in that town. Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep; And he will wake my infant from its sleep, To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. O! how I love a mother's watch to keep, Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep. I had a husband once, who loved me—now He ever wears a frown upon his brow, And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip; But yet I cannot hate-0! there were hours, When I could hang for ever on his eye, And time who stole with silent swiftness by, Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers. I loved him then--he loved me too-My heart Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile;

The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile,
Caresses which his babe and mine should share ;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness and should sickness come, and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then
I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured, and how faithful I had been.

THE CORAL GROVE.

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air: There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter; There with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea: And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms, Has made the top of the waves his own: And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;

Then far below in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

TO SENECA LAKE.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.

CONSUMPTION.

THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,

4*

VOL.

III.

When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower,
That ever in Pæstum's garden blew,
Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair, has fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.

0! there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays,
And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones, that sweetly speak
Of a spirit, who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments, that pleasure hath,
Are pour’d from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound,
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er
With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
In this enliven'd and gladsome hour
The spirit may burn with a brighter power ;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.

And when her sun is low declining, And life wears out with no repining,

And the whisper, that tells of early death, Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath, When it comes at the hour of still repose, To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose, And the lip, that swell’d with a living glow, Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow; And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, But the hectic spot that flushes there, When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling, And giving a tinge to her icy lips, Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, As richly red and as transient too, As the clouds, in autumn sky of blue, That seem like a host of glory met To honor the sun at his golden set: 0! then, when the spirit is taking wing, How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, As if she would blend her soul with his In a deep and long imprinted kiss ; So fondly the panting camel flies, Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes, And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, And the infant shrinks to his mother's breast. And though her dying voice be mute, Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, And though the glow from her cheek be fled, And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, Her eye still beams unwonted fires With a woman's love and a saint's desires, And her last fond, lingering look is given To the love she leaves, and then to heaven, As if she would bear that love away Toa purer world and a brighter day.

THE SERENADE.

Sortly the moonlight
Is shed on the lake,
Cool is the summer night-
Wake! O awake!
Faintly the curfew
Is heard from afar,