'Tis evening!-still I linger here,
Yet sorrow speaks not in a tear;
The silence is so sadly deep,

The place so pure,-I dare not weep!
I sit as in a shapeless dream,

Where all is changing, save its theme;
And, if a sigh will sometimes heave
A heart that loves,—but may not grieve,
It seems as though the spirits round
Sent back reproachfully the sound;
And then I start,—and think I have
A chiding from my sister's grave!

The feeling is a nameless one
With which I sit upon thy stone,

And read the tale I dare not breathe
Of blighted hope that sleeps beneath!
A simple tablet bears above

Brief record of a father's love,

96

MY SISTER'S GRAVE.

And hints, in language yet more brief,

-

The story of a father's grief :

Around, the night-breeze sadly plays
With scutcheons of the elder days;
And faded banners dimly wave,

On high,-right o'er my sister's grave!

Lost spirit!-thine was not a breast
To struggle vainly after rest!

Thou wert not made to bear the strife,
Nor labour through the storms of life!
Thy heart was in too warm a mould

To mingle with the dull and cold,
And every thought that wronged thy truth
Fell like a blight upon thy youth !—

Thou shouldst have been, for thy distress,

Less pure, and oh, more passionless!

For sorrow's wasting mildew gave

Its tenant to my sister's grave!

But all thy griefs, my girl, are o'er! Thy fair-blue eyes shall weep no more!

'Tis sweet to know thy fragile form

Lies safe from every future storm !—
Oft, as I haunt the dreary gloom

That gathers round thy peaceful tomb,
I love to see the lightning stream
Along thy stone, with fitful gleam;
To fancy in each flash are given
Thy spirit's visitings from heaven ;-
And smile-to hear the tempest rave
Above my sister's quiet grave!

F

A CONTRAST.

I SIT, in my lonely mood!—

No smiling eyes are near,

And there is not a sound in my solitude,

Save the voice in my dreaming ear!

The friends whom I loved, in light,

Are seen through a twilight dim,

Like fairies, beheld in a moonlight night,
Or heard in a far-off hymn!

The hopes of my youth are away,

My home and its early dreams,

I am far from the land where I used to play,

A child, by its thousand streams!

-Yet now, in my lonely hour,
What visions of bliss are mine!

For my spirit is ruled by a spell of power,
And the spell and the power are thine!

I have mixed with the courtly throng,
And smiled with the smiling crowd,

When the laugh was light, and the revel long,
And the mirth was high and loud!

I have watched the lightning-flash

Of beauty's playful eye,

As it gleamed beneath the long, dark lash,

Like a star in a moonless sky!

I have been where gentle tones

Grew gentler for my sake,

And seen soft smiles-those lovely ones

Which make young bosoms ache!

-Yet, in those brightest hours,

What lonely thoughts were mine!

For the heart has but one spring of flowers, my heart and its flowers were thine !

And