They were twin lasses; one was like the Rose, With deep, dark crimson on its opening breast; The other like the Daisy, when it glows With evening’s pearls upon its snowy crest. And when they nestled near me lovingly, They were like morn and quiet eve to me. But she, the golden haired, is with the stars! She, the blue-eyed, the fondest of the twain, For her was opened heaven’s glorious bars, Just as the sun was sinking in the main, And flowers less fair, each in its soft green nest, On the far shore, had sunk like her to rest. Upon the waves she died—the sounding waves— The sands her pillow, and the weeds her pall; And there the deepest, tideless water laves The mortal part of half my little all; And though I know her soul is bright above, Still earth is desolate without her love. She drooped from day to day—within my arms I cradled her dear form, so slight, so fair, And gazed with doating love upon her charms, While my big tears were glistening in her hair, Till o’er her upturned eyes the fringed-lid fell, And soft she said—I know she said—“Farewell!” She died without a moan, without a sigh; A golden day had faded in the west, And mother Night descending from on high, Was hushing Nature to her dreamy rest; And ere another day broke o’er the sea, Deep rolled the waves between my child and me. I chanted o’er her lays of her old home— And she, the stricken mourner by my side, Mingled her tears with ocean’s moonlit foam, And sent her wail upon the shoreless tide. Oh! it was sad to hear that heart-wrung moan On the wild sea, so vast, so still, so lone! On my own native Scotland’s hallowed ground, In a low glen, from worldly din afar, The stars look down upon the grassy mound Where _she_ is laid—my young life’s morning star— And in the trackless deep, the bud she gave From her fond bosom, fills a briny grave. And with this one, all that my heart has left, I raise my altar where your heaven glows; Here the lone pair, of all they loved bereft, Would find in you, Bethesda for their woes. They’ll think of home, with memory’s burning tear, But turn to meet Hope’s smiling welcome here! * * * * * JASPER ST. AUBYN; OR THE COURSE OF PASSION. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. INTRODUCTION.