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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 pastSurely your hearts have met at last !

VOL. V.-20



“Ne me plaignez pas — si vous saviez
Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnées !

I stood beside thy lowly grave;

Spring odours breathed around,
And music, in the river-wave,

Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun

In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seem’d 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.

* 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 has been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.

Tales by the O'Hara Family.

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 pass'd away!

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought

O’er my vain sadness came;
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

Odours 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.



When darkness from the vainly-doting sight,

Covers its beautiful ! “Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept, and would not be comforted, because her children were no more. And that, indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!”—From a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband.—See Curiosities of Literature.


Death !what, is death a lock'd and treasured thing,
Guarded by swords of fire ?

“ And if you remember of old, I dare die.-Consider what the world would conceive, if I should be violently enforced to do it.”

Fragments of her Letters.

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way,

In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.
A Greek bride, on leaving her father's house, takes leave of
her friends and relatives frequently in extemporaneous verse.-
Fauriel's Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne.


And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda. The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Histoire des Republiques Italiennes. Vol. iii. p. 443.

NOTE 5. Father of ancient waters, roll! “ Father of waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi.

NOTE 6. And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade. A beautiful fountain near Domreni, believed to be haunted by fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d'Arc in her childhood.

But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride,

Was she, the Lady from the Danube side. The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of her fate is beautifully related in L'Allemagne. Vol. iii. p. 336.

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