THE DEPARTED. BY MRS. MARY S. WHITAKER. Bid sorrow cease; she rests in peace— Her task, at last, is done; And decked with youth, and bright with truth, Cold lies thy martyred one. But thine the crime, and through all time, Remorse shall follow thee, With phantom form, through calm and storm, On land and on the sea. Her shadowy hair, her bosom fair, So often heaving sighs; Her smile so bland, her lily hand, Her mildly mournful eyes— Which long did weep—in troubled sleep, How lovely will they come, All fresh with life, and free from strife, From out the marble tomb. Her voice of love, all price above, Shall speak, as once it spoke, With gushing flow of tender wo, The while her heart was broke; When thy distrust had bowed to dust Her bosom’s modest pride, Ere like a flower, beneath the shower Too rude, she meekly died. ’Twill whisper soft, “Beloved, how oft Thy brow grows dark and stern; I know not why, yet in thy eye Strange coldness I discern; A heavy blight, the spirit’s night, Falls darkly on my soul; This inward grief, without relief, Thou only canst control!” These accents clear, thy waking ear Shall lose in silence dread; But from thy heart shall ne’er depart, The wailing of the dead; Her wasted bloom, her early doom, Shall haunt thee evermore! While she, at rest, with spirits blest, Lives on the better shore. * * * * * THE DEAD. BY “AN AULD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOUTHERS.” Dead! dead! they are dying—dying! Oh! for the hands that were clasping ours! Passed like a breeze in its own sad sighing, Falling like leaves from the wasted flowers, Dropping away, so still—so still! Call them again, so cold and chill! Dead? dead? Oh! _how could_ they die? Laughed they not, sang they not joyfully? Were they not with us—and now are they gone? Why have they left us, and where have they flown? Spake they not oft of a deathless tie? Are they not sleeping? Oh! where do they lie?