And there comes a voice from the far-off streams,

Like thy spirit's low replies!

I think on thee, by day,

'Mid the cold and busy crowd,

When the laughter of the young and gay

Is far too glad and loud!

I hear thy soft, sad tone,

And thy young, sweet smile I see,—

My heart-my heart were all alone,
But for its dreams of thee!

Of thee who wert so dear,—
And yet, I do not weep,

For thine eyes were stained by many a tear,

Before they went to sleep;

And, if I haunt the past,

Yet may I not repine

That thou hast won thy rest, at last,

And all the grief is mine!

66

I THINK ON THEE.

I think upon thy gain,

Whate'er to me it cost,

And fancy dwells, with less of pain,
On all that I have lost!-

Hope, like the cuckoo's oft-told tale,
-Alas! it wears her wing!-

And love, that-like the nightingale,-
Sings only in the spring!

Thou art my spirit's all,

Just as thou wert in youth,

Still, from thy grave, no shadows fall

Upon my lonely truth;—

A taper, yet, above thy tomb,

Since lost its sweeter rays,

And what is memory, through the gloom,

Was hope, in brighter days!

I am pining for the home

Where sorrow sinks to sleep,

Where the weary and the weepers come, And they cease to toil and weep!

Why walk about, with smiles.

That, each, should be a tear,

Vain as the summer's glowing spoils,
Flung o'er an early bier!

Oh! like those fairy things,
Those insects of the East,

That have their beauty in their wings,
And shroud it, while at rest;

That fold their colours of the sky,

When earthward they alight,

And flash their splendors on the eye,
Only to take their flight ;-

I never knew how dear thou wert,
Till thou wert borne away!

I have it, yet, about my heart,
Thy beauty of that day!——

68

I THINK ON THEE.

As if the robe thou wert to wear,

Beyond the stars, were given,

That I might learn to know it, there,
And seek thee out, in Heaven!

ON A HARP,

WITH BROKEN STRINGS.

Time, which antiquates antiquities, and hath an art to make dust of all hings, hath yet spared these minor monuments.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

The soft affections, when they are busy that way, will build their structures, were it but on the paring of a nail.

MAN OF FEELING.

MUTE emblem of the broken heart!

To thee my spirit fondly clings;
And memory-ruin as thou art!—

Haunts, like a ghost, thy shivered strings!

Alike, o'er thee, may pass the breeze