MOUNT CARMEL.

THE harp is hushed, in Kedron's vale,

The river dwindled to a rill,

That haunts it-like an ancient tale

In dying whispers, still!

The wind, among the sedges, keeps

Some echos of its broken lyre,

And wakes, at times, with sudden sweeps, Thoughts of its former fire,

Where Carmel's flowery summits rise,

To point the moral to the skies!

My breast has learnt--in other lands,—

That moral, through its own deep glooms, Lone-as yon lonely city stands

Among her thousand tombs!

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Amid its mouldering wrecks and weeds,
While memory-like that river,-sings,
Or-like the night-breeze in the reeds,-
Plays with its broken strings,
My spirit sits, with folded wing,
A sad-but not unhappy-thing!

What if my loves-like yonder waves,

That seek a dead and tideless sea,Have perished in the place of graves,

That darkly waits for me!

What if no outlet of the earth

Those dull and dreary waters own,
And time can give no second birth
To dreams and wishes gone!

What though my fount of early joy,

Like Kedron's springs, be almost dry!

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MOUNT CARMEL.

High o'er them, with its thousand flowers,

Its precious crown of scent and bloom, Hope, like another Carmel, towers

In sunshine and in gloom!

Flinging upon the wasted breast

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Sweets born in climes more pure and high, And pointing, with its lofty crest,

Beyond the starry sky,

Where a new Jordan's waves shall gem

A statelier Jerusalem!

DRY UP THY TEARS, LOVE!

DRY up thy tears, love!—I fain would be gay!
Sing me the song of my early day!

Give me the music, so witchingly wild,

That solaced my sorrows when I was a child !—

Years have gone by me, both lonely and long,

Since my spirit was soothed by thy voice, in that song!

Years have gone by!-and life's lowlands are past,
And I stand on the hill which I sighed for, at last;
But I turn from the summit that once was my star,
To the vale of my childhood, seen dimly and far ;-
Each blight on its beauty seems softened and gone,
Like a land that we love, in the light of the moon!

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DRY UP THY TEARS, LOVE.

There are the flowers that have withered away,

And the hopes that have faded,-like fairies at play, And the eyes that are dimmed, and the smiles that are

gone,

And thou too art there!--but thou still art mine own;

Fair as in childhood, and fond as in youth,
Thou-only thou-wert a spirit of truth!

Time hath been o'er thee, and darkened thine eye,
And thoughts are within thee more holy and high ;
Sadder thy smile than in days that are o’er,
And lovelier all that was lovely before;

That which thou wert is not that which thou art,
Thou too art altered in all-but in heart!

Lie on my bosom, and lead me along
Over lost scenes, by the magic of song!

What if I weep at the vision of years?
Sighs are not sorrow,-and joy has her tears!
Sad is my brow, as thy music is sad,

But oh! it is long since my heart was so glad!