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Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown,
Flushing the air; and winter's blast had been
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green
Fringed their dark boughs; for spring again had come,
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad
In her young lovely things, when voices break
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake:
Is it not brighter then, in that far clime
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs?
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day,
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play,
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin-door,
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore;
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,
“My father!”— to the grey-hair’d chief she spoke-
“Know'st thou that I depart?”—“I know, I know,"
He answer’d mournfully, “ that thou must go
To thy beloved, my daughter !” _“Sorrow not

For me, kind mother !" with meek smiles once more She murmur'd in low tones; "one happy lot

Awaits, us, friends! upon the better shore; For we have pray'd together in one trust, And lifted our frail spirits from the dust, To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, Under the cedar-shade: where he is gone Thither I go. There will my sisters be, And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee My childhood's prayer was learn'd,- the Saviour's

prayer

Which now ye know,—and I shall meet you there,
Father, and gentle mother !-ye have bound
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found
By Mercy's children.”—From the matron's eye
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply;
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep,
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep,
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in woe,
“Thou’rt passing hence,” he sang, that warrior old,
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll’d.

“Thou’rt passing from the lake's green side,

And the hunter's hearth away; For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride,

Daughter! thou canst not stay.

Thou’rt journeying to thy spirit's home,

Where the skies are ever clear;
The corn-month's golden hours will come,

But they shall not find thee here.

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird !

Under our whispering pine ;
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard,

But not a song like thine.

A breeze that roves o’er stream and hill,

Telling of winter gone,
Hath such sweet falls—yet caught we still

A farewell in its tone.

But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be

Where farewell sounds are o'er;
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see

No fear of parting more.
The mossy grave thy tears have wet,

And the wind's wild moanings by,
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,

'Midst flowers--not such as die.

The shadow from thy brow shall melt,

The sorrow from thy strain,
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt,

Our hearts shall thirst in vain.

Dim will our cabin be, and lone,

When thou, its light, art fled;
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown

Unto the happy dead.

And we will follow thee, our guide!

And join that shining band;
Thou’rt passing from the lake's green side-

Go to the better land!”

The song

had ceased—the listeners caught no breath, That lovely sleep had melted into death.

THE INDIAN CITY.'

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it.

Childe Harold.

I.

Royal in splendour went down the day
On the plain where an Indian city lay,
With its crown of domes o’er the forest high,
Red as if fused in the burning sky,
And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made
A bright stream's way through each long arcade,
Till the pillar'd vaults of the Banian stood,
Like torch-lit aisles 'midst the solemn wood,
And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold,
As a tree 'midst the genii-gardens old,
And the cypress lifted a blazing spire,
And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire.
Many a white pagoda's gleam
Slept lovely round upon lake and stream,
Broken alone by the lotus-flowers,
As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours,
Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed
Its glory forth on their crystal bed.
Many a graceful Hindoo maid,
With the water-vase from the palmy shade,

· From a tale in Forbes' Oriental Memoirs.

Came gliding light as the desert's roe,
Down marble steps to the tanks below;
And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard,
As the molten glass of the wave was stirr’d;
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air,
Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer.

There wander'd a noble Moslem boy
Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy;
He gazed where the stately city rose
Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose;
He turn'd where birds through the gorgeous gloom
of the woods went glancing on starry plume;
He track'd the brink of the shining lake,
By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake,
Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound
To the very heart of the holy ground.

And there lay the water, as if enshrined
In a rocky urn from the sun and wind,
Bearing the hues of the grove on high,
Far down through its dark still purity.
The flood beyond, to the fiery west
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast,
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep,
Seem'd made for the swimmer's joyful leap,
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase,
For all free things of the wild-wood's race.

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky,
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye.
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave,
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave;

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