Yet while thy place of weeping still

Its lone memorial keeps,

While on thy name, 'midst wood and hill,

The quiet sunshine sleeps,

And touches, in each graven line,

Of reverential thought a sign;

Can I, while yet these tokens wear
The impress of the dead,

Think of the love embodied there,
As of a vision fled?

A perish'd thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one earthly hour?

Not so!-I will not bow me so,

To thoughts that breathe despair!

A loftier faith we need below,

Life's farewell words to bear.

Mother and child!-Your tears are past

Surely your hearts have met at last!

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.*

"Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez

Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a épargnées!'

"

I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ;—
Spring-odors breath'd around,

And music, in the river-wave,

Pass'd with a lulling sound.

* Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of 'Psyche.' Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.-Tales by the O'Hara Family.

All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanc'd by,

And a glad murmur seem'd to run
Through the soft azure sky.

Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough
That fring'd the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad-but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.

And mournful grew my heart for thee,
Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song was shrined.

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,

With a dread curtain drawn

Between thee and the golden glow

Of this world's vernal dawn.

Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have lov'd so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.

The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright, reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring,-
And thou wert pass'd away!

But then, ev'n then a nobler thought my vain sadness came;

O'er

Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought

Within my thrilling frame.

Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look'd ere now,

Than all that round our pathway shed
Odors and hues below.

The shadows of the tomb are here,

Yet beautiful is earth!

What seest thou then where no dim fear, No haunting dream hath birth?

Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st-but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part.

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,

A voice not loud, but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep!

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?—
Now peace the woman's heart hath found,

And joy the poet's eye.