Soon o'er her body cold, chaunt we her funeral hymn, Wild branches, torn and old, timing the requiem. Why does she wander here, With the long braided hair? Why is the maiden pale-- Why does her breathing fail? Now, by the moonbeams fair, See her dimmed eye. She loved as maiden loves, she wept as woman weeps. Soon will her restless frame sleep where her lover sleeps. Then to our far-off groves Will we her spirit hear. When heaves her parting sigh, When closed her lustrous eye, We will her guardians be,-- She is our child. ALICE HILL. BY MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER. Fast by a brook, whose murmuring streams Reflected heaven in angel dreams, Embosomed in a quiet wood, An old and storm-rent school-house stood. All brown with age and worn by rains, Rude winter shook the shattered panes, That shivered in their casements light, Like goblins' teeth on windy night. But when the sun shone down the hill, On smiling field and gushing rill, And by the school-house danced the brook, Through hidden course or leafy nook, On shattered panes in casement light Its summer rays streamed clear and bright. Of pleasant ways and knowledge fair, Blithe Alice Hill reigned mistress there,-- Nor birchen rod nor oaken rule In terror held this woodland school; Love awed the spirits bold and wild, Love won the most rebellious child,-- O, Alice Hill! just sweet sixteen, Of pleasant ways and courteous mien, With glowing cheeks and eyes of blue, And glossy hair of golden hue, O God! that I should ever live, Such sad account of thee to give! In Moreland vale brown Autumn's tilth, Impatient waits the reaper's scythe: Where, scattered with a bounteous hand, Luxuriant harvests thickly stand. The sunlight bathes the waving grain, That sweetly smiles to sun again; The landscape lies in green and gold, And purple clouds in ether rolled, Or gentle blue now smile above This earthly scene of Eden love.