Perchance, upon a desert shore, The sands shall heap my stoneless grave; Perchance, upon a desert shore, The thunder of the ocean wave; The wind, whose voice its breakers mock, And yet, since none will smile the less 'The sea-rock, were my fitting tomb, The setting of that nameless star! SHE SLEEPS. BY MARY EMILY JACKSON. SHE sleeps! no light is on her brow, No griefs torment her heart's deep aching; No vision haunts her slumbers now She sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. She sleeps! and worms must revel deep She sleeps! no smile illumes her eye, Now closed forever from its weeping, Her cheeks have lost their wonted dyeShe wakes no more from death's cold sleeping. She sleeps! and earth must close around Her narrow bed, till earth be riven, And the last trump of God shall sound, To call her slumbering dust to Heaven. THE SNOW STORM. BY SEBA SMITH. THE cold wind swept the mountain's height, And colder still the winds did blow, Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. "O God!" she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child." She stript her mantle from her breast, At dawn, a traveller passed by, And saw her 'neath a snowy veil- Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale- THE BLISS OF HOME. BY T. H. SHREEVE. MINE be the joy which gleams around The dearest boon from Heaven above, Is bliss which brightly hallows home; "Tis sunlight to the world of love, And life's pure wine without its foam. There is a sympathy of heart Which consecrates the social shrineRobs grief of gloom, and doth impart A joy to gladness all divine. It glances from the kindling eye When love bestows the greeting kiss, And sparkles in each cup we sip Round the domestic board of bliss! Let others seek in wealth or fame, A splendid path whereon to treadI'd rather wear a lowlier name, With love's enchantments round it shed. Fame's but a light to gild the grave, And wealth can never calm the breast; But LovE, a halcyon on Life's wave, Hath power to soothe its strifes to rest. OH, SAY NOT WE SOON CAN FORGET. BY T. H. CUSHMAN. Он, say not we soon can forget The hearts that were fondly our own, Oh, say not the tear of regret Is woman's, dear woman's alone! We part, with a smile in our eyes, Our farewells may lightly be sighed, Yet dreary the tones of the skies, While forms, though not feelings, divide. We look then on days that are past, As spectres, deceiving our gaze; We feel like a mariner cast Where echo in mockery plays. |