As soft the yellow moonbeams streamed Across her bosom, snowy fair, She said, (the watchers thought she dreamed,) "'Tis like the shadow of his hair!" And they could hear, who nearest came, The cross to sign and hope to lend, The murmur of another name Than that of mother, brother, friend. An hour--and St. Mary's spires, Like spikes of flame, no longer glow-- No longer the confessional fires Shine redly on the drifted snow. An hour--and the saints had claimed That cottage maid, the village pride; And he, whose name in death she named, Was darkly weeping by her side. White as a spray-wreath lay her brow Beneath the midnight of her hair, But all those passionate kisses now Wake not the faintest crimson there! Pride, honor, manhood, cannot check The vehemence of love's despair-- No soft hand steals about his neck, Or bathes its beauty in his hair! Almost upon the cabin walls Wherein the sweet young maiden died, The shadow of a castle falls, Where for her young lord waits a bride! With clear blue eyes and flaxen hair, In her high turret still she sits; But, ah! what scorn her ripe lips wear-- What shadow to her bosom flits! From that low cabin tapers flash, And, by the shimmering light they spread, She sees beneath its mountain ash, Leafless, but all with berries red, Impatient of the unclasped rein, A courser that should not be there-- The silver whiteness of his mane Streaming like moonlight on the air! Oh, love! thou art avenged too well-- The young heart, broken and betrayed, Where thou didst meekly, sweetly dwell, For all its sufferings is repaid. Not the proud beauty, nor the frown Of her who shares the living years From her the winding-sheet wraps down, Can ever buy away the tears! From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal. MARY KINGSFORD. FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF A POLICE-OFFICER.