A DIRGE.

THE summer winds sing lullaby

O'er Mary's little grave,

And the summer flowers spring tenderly, O'er her their buds to wave.

For oh, her life was short and sweet

As the flowers which blossom at her feet.

A little while the beauteous gem

Bloom'd on the parent breast; Ah! then it wither'd on the stem,

And sought a deeper rest;

And we laid on her gentle frame the sod,

But we knew her spirit was fled to God.

The birds she loved so well to hear
Her parting requiem sing,

And her memory lives in the silent tear,
Which the heart to the eye will bring;
For her kind little feelings will ne'er be forgot
By those who have mourn'd her early lot.

THE EVENING HOUR.

THE

evening hour is sweet to me,

For it is Nature's lullaby;

The birds sing softer in the bowers,
The dews lie sleeping on the flowers;

The moon, in her pale beauty risen,
Shines coldly on the darkening heav'n;
And gently on the human breast,

Come the calm thoughts of home and rest;

And oft in that hour's solitude,

Thoughts of a deeper rest intrude ;

Which to the good but breathes of peace,

And of the fetter'd soul's release;

That hour as sweet, as sad as this,
The twilight of a dawn of bliss.

EVENING.

SWIFT fades the purple from the mountain height! O'er the blue lake, yon bark with homeward sail,

Spreads its light canvas to the evening gale; The pale moon bends thro' fields of azure light Her heavenly course, tinging with radiance bright The rippling stream, dark grove, or shelter'd

dale;

The gray mist, rising in the dewy vale,

Cheats with fantastic forms the traveller's sight

Hush'd is the voice of nature all around.

Hail, lovely Eve! to contemplation dear!

No murmur breaks thy halcyon calm profound, Save where the timorous bat, in idle fear,

Shrieks to the quivering leaf; or the dull sound Of night's slow herald, wakes thy startled ear.

THE HERMITAGE.

WHAT, amid this desert wild,
Stranger, has thy feet beguil'd?
Here no tinsel liveries wait,

The pomp of pride, the glare of state;
But, if to thee the russet stole,

And amice gray and beechen bowl,
lf, stranger, these to thee are dear,
O rest, a gentle Hermit, here.

Ere yet to rouse the slumbering morn,
The hunter rings his mountain horn,
At distant glimpse of eastern day,

The lark shall join thy matin lay;
And oft in evening's vesper hour,
The fays shall haunt thy silent bow'r,
And thread their dance in mystic maze,
Beneath the pale moon's chequer'd rays.