Slumber 'neath the mouldy stone,
All unheeded, all unknown.

Come and strew my grave with flowers,
Culled from Nature's wildest bowers;
Those I love, the modest ones,

Hiding 'mongst the moss and stones.

For alas! etc.

Come when waves of sorrow roll,
Fiercely o'er your shrinking soul;
And, if sainted spirits may,

I will soothe you while you pray.

For alas! etc.

Come when age has flecked your hair,
Seamed your brow with lines of care;
Sit and muse upon the time,

When we'll meet in yonder clime.

For alas! etc.

You will not forget, I know,

Where my "mortal" sleeps below;

Though the proud may pause and sneer,

You will hold it sacred, dear!

For alas etc.

MINNIE, EDITH, AND LIZZIE.

UNNY-haired and bright-eyed maidens,
Brimming o'er with fun and frolic,

Gushing out with joyous laughter,

Singing, dancing 'mongst the flowers,
Ever radiant, ever happy.

All unconscious of the darkness,
Looming in the distant future,-
Ye are like a streamlet gushing
From the summit of a mountain,
Skipping over rocks and pebbles,
Dancing round in mazy eddies,
Laughing out in merry cascades,
Toying with the moss and flow'rets,
Frisking, sparkling in the sunshine,
Ever dancing, ever singing,
Ever gushing out with gladness,
Filling all around with music;
All unconscious of the valley,
Where its waters, darker, deeper,
Roll with low and mournful cadence
Through the sedges and the shadows,
Onward to the boundless Ocean.

SONNET.

AY, can it be, that those bright phantasies :-
The forms of beings, loved in days gone by,

(Our noble ones long passed into the sky ;)

Those radiant visions, fair-eyed Fancy sees

When thought steals back in dreamy reveries:
Who, when the soul would linger and despond,
Breathe evermore that glorious thought, "beyond!"
Who, soft as moonlight falls on troubled seas,

Steal o'er the burden of our nightly dreams.

And soothe and nerve us when we need it most,
And point from earthly cares to Calvary's streams,
Say are they spirits of our loved and lost,
Lent for a time our angel-guards to be?
For oh! to deem them such, is sweet to me,

SUNRISE.

LOW creeps the light athwart the concave still, Steals a low whisper on the breathless calm, Bringing the scent of opening flowers, a balm ; Breaks o'er the earth a grand, a rapturous thrill, The chant of waters and the song-bird's trill;

The clouds fold up their curtains snowy white; The sleepy stars fade noiselessly from sight. Bright Phoebus mounts above the crimson hill; The sheeted mists like baffled hosts retire,

Wan Zephyr comes to wanton with the flowers, The stream meanders on, a string of fire,

And light and music fill earth's sylvan bowers; Bright dewdrops shine and tremble everywhere: O Sceptic, look and blush, for God is there!

MAN O' MOW.

REMINISCENCES.

INSCRIBED TO G. H.

JET me ship my oars a little

Drifting idly down the stream,
From the twilight towards the sunlight-
While I live again that dream.

On the cragged sun-tinted summit
Of a mountain pile I stand,
Hugely grand, and wildly lovely
Visions rise on every hand.
Calms of sky are blue about me,
Windy currents on me beat;
Broken fissures dark with thicket,
Cliffs and gaps are at my feet-
To the Northward sweeps the mountain,
Turret-spurred and larch-embrowed-
Heaving, swelling, crouching, curving,
To the awful headland "cloud"
Which o'erlooks a widening plain-land,
Flanked with rugged outs and ins,
Whence the damps arise that, floating,
Mist the foreheads of the Mins.

To the South a dusky turret

From the highest apex climbs, Like a fragment of some giant

Bulwark of the feudal times;

Thence the mountain breaks and straggles

Roughly to the vale afar,

In a score of ragged plateaus,

Girt with gleaming shale and spar. And among the knolls and hollows, Villas, blocks, and chimneys rise; All a-stir with toiling livers,

All a-pant with enterprise.

Eastward, where adoring Eos

Wakens Goa's Memnon lyre, Rise the many-shaped and broken Torrent-hills of Staffordshire; Crowding upward like the billows On a tempest tortured sea;

'Mongst whose scalloped crests and curvings Throbs a monster Industry.

To the West, a vast campagna,
Where a bay might once have been,
Suns its wide, recumbent substance,
Liveried o'er with gold and green;
Forest-braided, with a prolix

Growth of huge umbrageous trees,
Shrinking 'neath a tickling wind-sprite,
Like the laughter of the seas.
Sudden gleams of rural mansions,
Sloping roofs, and glinting walls,
Many-gabled, many-windowed,
Pinnacled, patrician halls,

Where the beeches crowd the thickest

On the sward; and here and there