THE ORPHAN'S SOLILOQUY.

Where the brook gently murmurs of the past,
As it flows onward to its destined home,
The hoarse, old ocean, which receives at last,
The little wand'rers from the hill that roam-
Where the sweet maple shade invites to thought,
Free from the sultry sun's oppressive heat,
The green grass for my couch, the heart untaught,
Loves to return, the absent ones to greet;
For I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

The birds of air on their fleet pinions borne,
Send each to other their sweet songs of joy;
How could the self-taught songster learn to mourn,
And its own pleasure quickly to destroy,
While the air trembles with the note it bears,

So sweet the sound, and fragrant flowers fling Their incense to fair warblers! Why should cares Destroy the pleasure which an hour may bring? But I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

There was a time when summer shades were dear,
When the fair daisy in the scented field,
And the gay warbler with its song of cheer,

A childish rapture to the heart could yield;
But shadows now brood over that fair time,

Its flowers are faded and its loved ones dead, And its remembrance is a sunny clime,

From which my early footsteps long have fled. Now I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

My Mother, on whose bosom I did rest,

And learn in lisping accents to declare The words which from those lovely lips were blest, Seemed like my Mother, always good and fair,

And Father too, from whose reproving nod,

With awe I shrunk, yet oft obtained his praise, Have left me for that land, they say, where God Dwells with delight and endless length of days; But I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

There was a Sister, in whose cheerful face
I once could gaze as in a placid lake,
All gentle feelings written there could trace,

The fair reflection of my own would make;

She too has fled, they say, on seraph wings,
Where flowers fair forever are in bloom;
But thought of her to me a sadness brings,
And throws around my sky a pensive gloom.
O I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

The household altar has been broken down,

And Ruin broods around the wreck there made, And Desolation with forbidding frown,

Has changed the place into a sickly glade,

Where birds no more will chant the morning song, And floral sweets no more perfume the air.

The winter of my discontent is long,

Though flowers bloom in other places fair;
And I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

Could I but give the orphan's heart a tongue,
And tell how much is buried in the grave,
When all that clusters round the soul, is wrung

By Death's rude hand away-how little, save

The breath of life, is left, when friends so dear,

Hushed in the slumber of the last, long sleep,

Awake no more to hope or goading fear,

Then men would know what makes an orphan weep! O I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

They say,

if I am only good and kind, And do my duty like a man, while here, And to my follies am not always blind,

But day by day amend with sober fear, I yet may see those loved ones, in a land

Fair as the fairest, brightest summer day.

The thought shall cheer me on to meet the band,
Now gone before, and this shall be my stay;
But I am sad,

Loved ones return

To make me glad,

No more!

LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER.

Sleep, Sister, sleep! the gentle dew,
Although unseen, is falling now;
And shades of night return a few

Who cling like phantoms round my brow.
Sleep, Sister, sleep!

Sleep, Sister, sleep! the wild bird now
Has sung its song, and fled to rest
Beneath the shelter of a bough;

To-morrow's light will make it blest.
Sleep, Sister, sleep!

Sleep, Sister, sleep! all free from pain
Which can not pierce the spirit now;
Our loss is your eternal gain,

Death-damps no more can chill the brow.
Sleep, Sister, sleep!

Sleep, Sister, sleep! while here I bow
Above the form which has been fair;
Reposing in the cold grave now,

Is free from pain and free from care.
Sleep, Sister, sleep!