And this is why the twilight hour Is holier far to me, Than gorgeous burst of morning light, Or moonbeams on the sea. THE MANIAC. A story is told in Spain, of a woman, who, by a sudden shock of domestic calamity, became insane, and ever after looked up incessantly to the sky. O'er her infant's couch of death, Bent a widowed mother low; And the quick, convulsive breath Marked the inward weight of woe. Round the fair child's forehead clung Golden tresses, damp and bright; While Death's pinion o'er it hung, And the parted lips grew white. Reason left the mother's eye, When the latest pang was o'er; Then she raised her gaze on high, Turned it earthward nevermore. By the dark and silent tomb, Where they laid the dead to rest; By the empty cradle's gloom, And the fireside once so blest; In the lone and narrow cell, Fettered by the clanking chain, Where the maniac's piercing yell Thrilled the heart with dread and pain;-- Upward still she fixed her gaze, Tearless and bewildered too, Speaking of the fearful night Madness o'er the spirit threw; Upward, upward,--till in love Death removed the veil of Time, Raised the broken heart above, To the far-off healing clime. Mortal! o'er the field of Life Pressing with uncertain tread; Mourning, in the torrent strife, Blessings lost and pleasures fled;-- A sublimer faith was taught By the maniac's frenzied eye, Than Philosophy e'er caught From intensest thought and high. When the heart is crushed and broken By the death-bell's sullen chime, By the faded friendship's token, Or the wild remorse of crime, Turn to earth for succor never, But beyond her light and shade, Toward the blue skies look forever: God, and God alone, can aid. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD. Oh! call us not silent, The throng of the dead! Though in visible being No longer we tread The pathways of earth, From the grave and the sky, From the halls of the Past And the star-host on high, We speak to the spirit In language divine; List, Mortal, our song, Ere its burden be thine. Our labor is finished, Our race it is run; The guerdon eternal Is lost or is won; A beautiful gift Is the life thou dost share; Bewail not its sorrow, Despise not its care; The rainbow of Hope Spans the ocean of Time; High triumph and holy Makes conflict sublime.