It must be life which sits upon that brow So calm—so full of mind’s nobility: For I do gaze with homage even now, As if _her_ living lustre beamed on me. There sleep the folds of her unrivalled hair— There bloom those lips whose charm no words may speak, And her divinest smile, which mocks at care, Blends sweetly with the tints which clothe her cheek. Rich rooms were lighted, and I wandered long, Seeking a solace with the fair and bright; But ever, as I moved amid the throng, Thy large eyes haunted with their gentle light. Ev’n through my fevered sleep, in wildest dreams, Those features all seem’d over me to brood: Alas! when midnight fails to hide those gleams, How vainly seeks the heart a solitude! But _she_ was there—thy _living_ counterpart: Why gaze on _thee_, when I might look on her? Ah, often in this world, the mourning heart Seeks least, thro’ _fear_, the things it would prefer! For when unto my lip there rose the jest, And I seemed coldest, to the throng around, Then _most_ love burned within my wearied breast, And strongest, with its chain, my heart was bound. As o’er Italian seas the “Vesper Hymn” Comes gently:—so her voice in music stole; My tongue did falter, and mine eyes grew dim; For fainting joy was throned within my soul. I all forget the end; how we did part; Or if she frowned on me—or if she smiled; I slept with her bright image in my heart, And the fair morning found me chained—beguiled! * * * * * LINES. BY J. E. DOW. Ask not for life, ’tis vain at best, A period fraught with bitter woe, A gaudy fiction when ’tis blest, A constant struggle here below; But Death! it bears the weary home, Where sin and sorrow cannot come. To die in youth, to ’scape the pain That like a shadow marks our way, To die, aye ’tis to live again In brighter regions far away; Where unknown glories ceaseless roll Their floods of pleasure o’er the soul. We weep above the early dead, And crown the scanty grave with flowers; We feel affliction when we tread Amid the churchyard’s silent bowers: But could we hear the spirits’ song How blithely should we move along? Free’d from the mockery of earth, In the Almighty’s glory drest, How mean appears their spot of birth? How beautiful their place of rest? Their voices ring ’mid angel choirs, And love in sweetness tunes their lyres. Then ask not life, but joy to know That sinless they in heaven shall stand; That death is not a cruel foe To execute a wise command. ’Tis ours to ask, ’tis God’s to give.— We live to die—and die to live. * * * * *