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ACROSS THE WAVES AWAY AND PAR.

My heart is tutored not to weep;
Calm, like the calm of even,

Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep,

Hallows the hours I love to keep

For only thee and heaven :-

Too far and fair to aid the birth

Of thoughts that have a taint of earth!

And yet, the days for ever gone,—

When thou wert as a bird,

Living 'mid sun and flowers alone,

And singing in so soft a tone

As I never since have beard,

Will make me grieve that birds, and things

So beautiful, have ever wings!

And there are hours in the lonely night

When I seem to hear thy calls,

Faint as the echos of far delight,

And dreamy and sad as the sighing flight

Of distant waterfalls ;

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And then my vow is hard to keep,

For it were a joy, indeed, to weep!

For I feel as men feel when moonlight falls
Amid old cathedral aisles;

Or the wind plays, sadly, along the walls
Of lonely and forsaken halls,

That we knew in their day of smiles;

Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers,

A tune he had learnt in his mother's bowers.

But I may not and I dare not weep,

Lest the vision pass away,

And the vigils that I love to keep

Be broken up, by the fevered sleep

That leaves me—with the day—

Like one who has travelled far, to the spot

Where his home should be-and finds it not!

Yet then, like the incense of many flowers,
Rise pleasant thoughts to me;

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ACROSS THE WAVES-AWAY AND FAR.

For I know, from thy dwelling in eastern bowers,

That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours,
To meet me over the sea;

And I feel, in my soul, the fadeless truth

Of her whom I loved in early youth.

Like hidden streams,-whose quiet tone

Is unheard in the garish day,

That utter a music all their own,

When the night-dew falls, and the lady moon
Looks out to hear them play,-

I knew not half thy gentle worth,
Till grief drew all its music forth.

We shall not meet on earth again!
And I would have it so ;

For, they tell me that the cloud of pain
Has flung its shadow o'er thy brain,
And touched thy looks with woe;

And I have heard that storm and shower

Have dimmed thy loveliness, my flower!

I would not look upon thy tears,—
For I have thee in my heart,

Just as thou wert, in those blessed years
When we were, both, too young for fears
That we should ever part;

And I would not aught should mar the spell,
The picture nursed so long and well!

I love to think on thee, as one
With whom the strife is o'er;

And feel that I am journeying on,

Wasted, and weary, and alone,

To join thee on that shore

Where thou-I know-wilt look for me,

And I, for ever, be with thee!

THE DEAD TRUMPETER.

AFTER A VIGNETTE PICTURE, BY HORACE VERNET.

WAKE, soldier, wake!-thy war-horse waits,

To bear thee to the battle back ;—

Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates ;-
Thy dog would break thy bivouac ;-
Thy plume is trailing in the dust,

And thy red faulchion gathering rust!

Sleep, soldier, sleep!-thy warfare o'er,-
Not thine own bugle's loudest strain
Shall ever break thy slumbers more,
With summons to the battle-plain ;
A trumpet-note more loud and deep
Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep!