That trembling from her bosom rose, Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes And some warm image lingering there, Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer, Still, like an outcast child, will creep Where sweetly it was wont to sleep, And mingle its unhallowed sigh With cloister-prayer and rosary; Then tell the pale, deluded one Her vows are breathed to God alone; Those vows, which tremulously rise, Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice. LINES. BY EMMA C. EMBURY. When in the shadow of the tomb This heart shall rest, Oh! lay me where spring flowers bloom On earth's bright breast. Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay My lifeless form; Seek not of such mean, worthless prey To cheat the worm. In this sweet city of the dead I fain would sleep, Where flowers may deck my narrow bed, And night dews weep. But raise not the sepulchral stone To mark the spot; Enough, if by thy heart alone 'Tis ne'er forgot. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON. I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid! and I rest In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast; At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat. When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flow In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow; O then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, And listen to music which steals from thy heart. Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul, My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll; I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes. The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me; There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee, Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest. Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies; I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping, To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping. I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night; Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie, Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy; My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart. Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled, And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head. WHAT IS SOLITUDE? BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Not in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the sleeping echoes brood In caves untrod by men; Not by the sea-swept shore Where loitering surges break, Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake, Not in the desert plain Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main-- Not there is Solitude!