THE GRAVE OF A POETESS

["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 churchyard 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.]

I STOOD beside thy lowly grave;
Spring odours breathed around,

And music in the river-wave
Passed with a lulling sound.

All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seemed to run
Through the soft azure sky.

Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough
That fringed 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 loved 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 passed away.

But then, even then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
The immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.

Surely on lovelier things, I said,

Thou must have looked ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed Odours and hues below.

The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!

What see'st thou, then, where no dim fear, No haunting dream hath birth!

Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gavest; 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.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

"Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?"-MARMION.

THE stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!