In many hearts the gloomy sway Of sorrow lessens, day by day, Until the charms of life at last Blot out remembrance of the past: As winds may kiss the trampled flower, And lift again its bruiséd leaf, So time, with his assuaging power, May stay the wasting march of grief: But hearts in _other_ bosoms beat Where anguish finds a _lasting seat_— That heal not with the lapse of time— Too delicately stung for earth, Whose chords can never after chime With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth. Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight Strove oft, but vainly, to forget The horrors of that fatal night, When her _beloved star_, whose light Made bondage pleasant, set. No murmur from the lip outbroke, Though suddenly her cheek grew thin— No quick, convulsive start bespoke The desolating fire within. Her dark eye rested on the wave By day and in the hush of eve, As if, ere long, the wet sea-cave Her buried one would leave, And, drifting suddenly to view, His murderer with dread subdue. Ah! I have said the stately mien Of Zillah would befit a queen, That lawless _crime_ could ill withstand Her innate bearing of command. Alas! regality of soul Gives agony supreme control, And prompts the wretched one to hide Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze— To nurse, in uncomplaining pride, The scorpion that preys. * * * * * A DIRGE FOR O’CONNELL. BY ANNE C. LYNCH. Throw open once again The portals of the tomb, And give among the glorious dead Another hero room! Unclose your shadowy ranks, Illustrious shades unclose! The valiant Leader, crowned with years, Goes down to his repose. The champion of Peace On many a well-fought field, Whose bloodless victories left no stain On his untarnished shield; A king, though on his brow No jeweled crown might shine, A king, although his patriot blood Glowed from no royal line; A sovereign o’er a realm No boundaries can confine. Whose throne was in a Nation’s heart, Who reigned by right divine;