THE QUIET LAND.

Death is the privilege of human nature,

And life, without it, were not worth our taking.

How sweet to sleep where all is peace,
Where sorrow cannot reach the breast,
Where all life's idle throbbings cease,
And pain is lulled to rest ;—
Escaped o'er fortune's troubled wave,
To anchor in the silent grave!

That quiet land where, peril past,

The weary win a long repose,
The bruised spirit finds, at last,

A balm for all its woes,—

And lowly grief and lordly pride

Lie down, like brothers, side by side!

The breath of slander cannot come

To break the calm that lingers there ;
There is no dreaming in the tomb,
Nor waking to despair;

Unkindness cannot wound us more,

And all earth's bitterness is o'er !

There the maiden waits till her lover come,—

They never more shall part !—

And the stricken deer has gained her home,
With the arrow in her heart!

And passion's pulse lies hushed and still,
Beyond the reach of the tempter's skill!

The mother-she is gone to sleep,
With her babe upon her breast,-

She has no weary watch to keep

Over her infant's rest;

His slumbers on her bosom fair

Shall never more be broken-- there!

For me for me, whom all have left,
-The lovely, and the dearly loved!-
From whom the touch of time hath reft

The hearts that time had proved,
Whose guerdon was-and is-despair,
For all I bore-and all I bear ;-

Why should I linger idly on,

Amid the selfish and the cold,

A dreamer-when such dreams are gone.

As those I nursed of old!

Why should the dead tree mock the spring, A blighted and a withering thing!

How blest-how blest that home to gain,
And slumber in that soothing sleep,

From which we never rise to pain,
Nor ever wake to weep 1

To win my way from the tempest's roar,

And lay me down on the golden shore !

STANZAS TO A LADY.

Affliction had touched her looks with something that was scarce earthly.

Elle avait un air plus ancien que vieux.

MARIVAUX.

STERNE.

THE rose that decked thy cheek is dead,
The ruby from thy lip has fled,

Thy brow has lost its gladness;

And the pure smiles that used to play
So brightly there, have passed away

Before the touch of sadness!

Yet sorrow's shadows o'er thy face

Have wandered with a mellowing grace

And grief has given to thine eye

A beauty, such as yonder sky
Receives, when daylight's splendour
Fades in the holy twilight hour,
Whose magic hangs on every flower
A bloom more pure and tender;
When angels walk the quiet even,
On messages of love from Heaven!

Thy low sweet voice, in every word, Breathes-like soft music far-off heard,

The soul of melancholy!

And oh! to listen to thy sigh !

The evening gale that wanders by

The rose is not so holy!

But none may know the thoughts that rest

In the deep silence of thy breast!

For oh! thou art, to mortal eyes,

Like some pure spirit of the skies,