At length, where smoother waters flow, Emerging from the abyss below, The hapless youth they gained, and bore Sad to his own forsaken door. There watched his dog, with straining eye, And scarce would let the train pass by, Save that with instinct's rushing spell, Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue, And stiff and stony form, he knew The master he had loved so well. The kitten fair, whose graceful wile So oft had won his musing smile, As round his slippered foot she played, Stretched on his vacant pillow laid. While strewed around, on board and chair, The last-plucked flower, the book last read, The ready pen, the page outspread, The water cruse, the unbroken bread-- Revealed how sudden was the snare That swept him to the dead. And so, he rests in foreign earth, Who drew 'mid Albion's vales his birth: Yet let no cynic phrase unkind Condemn that youth of gentle mind-- Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart, And lettered lore, and tuneful art, Who here his humble worship paid In that most glorious temple-shrine, Where to the Majesty Divine Nature her noblest altar made. No, blame him not, but praise the Power Who, in the dear domestic bower, Hath given you firmer strength to rear The plants of love--with toil and fear-- The beam to meet, the blast to dare, And like a faithful soldier bear; Still with sad heart his requiem pour, Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar, And bid one tear of pitying gloom Bedew that meek enthusiast's tomb. BURIAL OF A VOLUNTEER. BY PARK BENJAMIN. 'Tis eve! one brightly-beaming star Shines from the eastern heavens afar, To light the footsteps of the brave, Slow marching to a comrade's grave. The Northern wind has sunk to sleep; The sweet South breathes; as low and deep The martial clang is heard, the tread Of those who bear the silent dead. And whose the form, all stark and cold, Thus ready for the loosened mould; Thus stretched upon so rude a bier? Thine, soldier, thine--the volunteer! Poor volunteer! the shot, the blow, Or fell disease hath laid him low-- And few his early loss deplore-- His battle done, his journey o'er. Alas! no fond wife's arms caressed, His cheeks no tender mother pressed, No pitying soul was by his side, As, lonely in his tent, he died. He died--the volunteer--at noon; At evening came the small platoon; And soon they'll leave him to his rest, With sods upon his manly breast. Hark to their fire! his only knell, More solemn than the passing bell; For, ah! it tells a spirit flown Without a prayer or sigh, alone! His name and fate shall fade away, Forgotten since his dying day, And never on the roll of fame Shall be inscribed his humble name.