ORPHAN'S DREAM OF CHRISTMAS. 47

Now the Christmas morn was breaking
With a dim uncertain hue,

And the chilling breeze of morning

Came the broken window through;

And the hair upon her forehead,
Was it lifted by the blast,

Or the brushing wings of seraphs
With their burden as they pass'd?

All the festive bells were chiming
To the myriad hearts below;
But that deep sleep still hung heavy
On the sleeper's thoughtful brow.
To her quiet face the dream-light
Had a ling ring glory given;
But the child herself was keeping

Her Christmas-day in heaven!

The Phantom.

AGAIN I sit within the mansion,

In the old, familiar seat;

And shade and sunshine chase each other

O'er the carpet at my feet.

But the sweet-briers' arms have wrestled upward,

In the summers that are past;

And the willow trails its branches lower

Than when I saw them last.

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly
From out the haunted room;

To fill the house, that once was joyful,
With silence and with gloom.

And many kind remember'd faces
Within the doorway come-
Voices that wake the sweeter music
Of one that now is dumb.

They sing, in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear;

THE PHANTOM.

They braid the rose in summer garlands,
Whose flowers to her were dear.

And still her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,

Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more.

And, all forgetful of my sorrow,
Unmindful of my pain,

I think she has but newly left me,
And soon will come again.

She stays without, perchance, a moment,
To dress her dark-brown hair;
I hear the rustle of her garments-
Her light step on the stair!

O flutt'ring heart! control thy tumult,
Lest eyes profane should see
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture
Her coming brings to me!

She tarries long; but lo! a whisper

Beyond the open door,

And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,

A shadow on the floor!

49

Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me,
The vine whose shadow strays;

And my patient heart must still await her,
Nor chide her long delays.

But my heart grows sick with weary waiting,

As many a time before;

The foot is ever at the threshold,

Yet never passes o'er.

THE DYING POET.

51

The Dying Poet.

FROM THE FRENCH OF DE LAMARTINE.

THE lyre in breaking breathes a tone of power; The fading lamp, while in its dying hour, Flashes its parting ray of quiv'ring light; The dying swan beholds the azure sky : 'Tis man alone who looks on days gone by, And as he counts them, mourns their rapid flight.

And what were worth the days that we deplore, A sun, a sun; an hour, and then an hour,

Each one resembling that before it flown; One takes away that which another brings Labor, repose and grief fly on its wings. Thus goes the day, and then the night is gone.

Ah! let him weep whose clinging hands embrace, As twining ivy clasps the broken vase,

The ruined wreck of years-his hopes must

fail