Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear; I hear thy voice in the twilight air; Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see When the visions of evening are borne to me; Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm-- My arm embraceth thy graceful form; I wake in a world that is sad and drear, To feel in my bosom--thou art not here. Oh! once the summer with thee was bright; The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light. There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh, There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh; Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest-- A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast; My heart was full of a sense of love, Likest of all things to heaven above. Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall Where my budding raptures have perished all; To that tranquil and solemn place of rest, Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast; Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid-- Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;-- All that was lovely to me is there, Mournful is life, and a load to bear! LINES [_Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend._] BY WILLIAM LEGGETT. As playful boys by ocean's side Upon its margin trace, Some frail memorial which the tide Returning must efface; Thus I upon this brittle glass These tuneless verses scrawl, That they, when I away shall pass, May thought of me recall. The waves that beat upon the strand Wash out the schoolboy's line, As soon some rude or careless hand May shiver those of mine. But though what I have written here In thousand fragments part, I trust my name will still be dear, And treasured in the heart. THE SEPULCHRE OF DAVID. BY WILLIAM L. STONE.