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A placid, pallid brow, which keepeth
The farewell smile of parted breath:
A clay-cold heart, which calmly sleepeth
The dreamless sleep of death,-

Which knows no change-no sorrow suffereth.

Bind on that slumbering brow a fragrant rose-wreath,

Sweets to the sweet!

A TRIBUTE OF SYMPATHY.

TO ROWLAND BROWN.

THE quivering pulse grew feebler in its beating,
The trembling voice in whispers died away;
The star-like eyes, whose glances kept repeating
A mother's love, grew silent in decay;
And when the lingering sun proclaimed the dawning,
She heard the summons of the angel, "Come!"
And, in the spirit-land, beheld the morning

Which welcomed her to her eternal home.

Wrapt in the shadows of the tomb, she sleepeth;

The fragile form, the mouldering clay, are there;
But not the grave, o'er which the orphan weepeth,
Imprisons the immortal soul! Ah, no! Afar,
Far from this fading world, where Death's dominion
Blights all the good, the beautiful, the blest,
Her tranquil soul, as on a dove's swift pinion,
Soared gladly to its everlasting rest.

O, mourning heart! thy pilgrim path is blighted,
Sepulchral gloom thy sky hath overcast;
Thine eyes are dim with tears, thy soul is weary;
When shall thine agonizing grief be past?
O, suffer and be still! And, bending lowly,
Pray thou for strength sufficient for thy day:
And ministering angels, strong and holy,

Shall heal thy wounded heart, and guard thy way.

L

JERUSALEM.

SILENT and desolate the shattered walls, The vine-fringed arches, where the glare of day Ne'er gilds the gloom, save when a suubeam falls, Searching for beauty, finding but decay ;— Silent and desolate the winding streets. Where Israel's children once in thousands trod, Perchance a lonely pilgrim treads, and meets No answering echo to his weary plod— Is this Jerusalem, the city of our God?

Ay!-Seated by yon sad memorial stones,
(Sole remnants of her glory and her woe!)
The wailing Jews dart up their prayers and groans,
Steeped in a grief a Jew alone can know;
And other worshippers in scorn pass by

:

To bend the knee before their Prophet's shrine :-
And through the long dim vistas may the eye
Behold the dreaming Moslemah recline,

Where mournful cypress-leaves a fitting shade entwine.

Around the city rise the hills of yore:

The ancient streams still murmur to the breeze:
The Olive Mount is thinly scattered o'er,

E'en as of old, with venerable trees :

But over all the melancholy change
That time and ruin work, has slowly come :
As in the burial-vale, where'er we range,
Each reverent footstep falls upon a tomb,
So over all Death seems to hang his awful doom.

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As when a star, amid the darkness gleaming,
Guides the lone wanderer safe to his abode;
May that sweet spirit-star upon thee beaming,
Draw thee still onward to the home of God.
Years speed away, the time is swiftly fleeting,

Mothers, and sons, and friends shall meet once more;
And, oh! how blest will be that glorious meeting,
To dwell in heaven, together, evermore!

A VISION.

SPECTRE-FORMS are gliding round me: lo! the hazy moon revealeth

Each pale phantom, as with noiseless tread it slowly passeth on:

And in deep mysterious silence, see, the long procession stealeth

To the Land of the Unknown.

One dim shadow lingereth near me: hark! a ghostly whisper claimeth

A remembrance of an earth-love ere the grave received its own:

Ah! another, and another: and my mournful memory nameth

Long-lost brethren, one by one.

As I gaze with wondering glances on these once familiar

faces,

Lo! there gather round about them panoramas of the

past:

And they once more stand before me, robed in all the tender graces

Which decay forbade to last.

O! 'tis strange once more to see my childhood's inno

cent romances,

Feel again its wayward wildness, smile again its happy smile:

And in dreamy recollection ponder o'er its fairest fan

cies

Though it is but for a while.

But the vision quickly changeth, and in passionate embracings,

To my lips one softly presseth a cold and chilly kiss; And my spirit throbs within me, as I see the faded tracings

Of my brief Elysian bliss.

Ah! the lingerers pass onwards, and the vision is decaying,

As the shadows of the evening in their wonted places

fall;

And my straining glances see nought but the glimmering moonbeams playing

On my lonely parlour wall.

No! my mortal eyes may see not where the spirit-forms may linger,

But I know they still are near me and I seem to see a hand

Still outstretched amid the gloaming, and a beckoning with a finger

To the never-dying land.

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.

A BRIDE and bridegroom of a day
Sit in the pale moonlight:
Each blissful words of love doth say,
Each eye with love is bright.

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