Sweet were the words from her lips that fell, As the mocking-bird’s song in the hazel dell; Like the honey of Hybla her words were fraught With sweets from the choicest flowers sought; Gloom from her beaming presence fled, Mirth and joy were around her shed; Little they know of the poisoned dart That rankles deep in her bleeding heart; Little they know that her beaming eye Tells but a hollow mockery. Bright were the jewels that flashed on her brow As the gleam of the stars on the mountain snow, And the trembling lustre of costly pearls Beams through the waves of her golden curls, As with queenly step she passes along, The loveliest one of that beautiful throng; But her heart with inward grief is bowed, And her cheek is as pale as the dead man’s shroud, And tears will start in her orbs of blue, Like a rose that weepeth with morning dew. A gentle heart that she once had known Had throbbed for her and for her alone. High and holy in him was her trust-- Alas! it has turned to ashes and dust! Can she her sacred vows recall, Can she, can she forget them all? Never! although with an aching breast She ever obeys the stern behest, Yielding with smiles to her bitter lot; Meekly yielding and murmuring not; The memory of departed hours Shall weave her garland of withered flowers, But the hope that cheered her soul is flown, And she moves ’mid the throng, alone, alone. Her lips may smile, but her eye is chill, And her laugh may ring, but her heart is still; Her bosom is now the canker’s prey-- She is passing away, passing away. DEATH OF THE SEASONS. Last night pealed out the dark Death-angel’s cry-- “Another year is gone!”--and from the sky A myriad of voices, like a river, Reëchoed “Gone! forever and forever!” The deep roll of the night-wind’s muffled drum Mourned for the dead whose lips are pale and dumb Within whose pulseless and unconscious breast Reigns the nepenthe of a dreamless rest. Scatter sweet flowers on the season’s tomb, For oh, they perished in their early bloom! And o’er their dust this requiem be sung-- “Weep not, for Heaven’s best favorites die young” Oh, Spring was very beautiful and gay When April mild and rosy-fingered May Rambled among the many babbling brooks And gathered wild flowers in their shady nooks, And waving them in gladness in the air, Scattered their fragrant dew-drops everywhere Beneath whose silver spray the delicate bloom Of Flora filled the air with rich perfume.