Thy form will be miss'd from the social hearth, Thy voice from the mingling tones of mirth; When the sound of music is poured along-- When my soul hangs entranced on the poet's song-- When history points from her glowing page, To the deathless deeds of a former age-- When my eye fills up and my heart beats high, I shall look in vain for thine answering eye. When the winds are lulled in the quiet sky, And the sparkling waters go surging by, And the cheering sun invites to walk, I shall miss thine arm and thy pleasant talk: My rustling step--the leafless tree-- The very rock will speak of thee. I'll think of thee when the sunset dyes Are glowing bright in the western skies; When the dusky shades of evening's light Are melting away into deeper night-- When the silvery moon looks bright above, Raising the tides of human love-- When the holy stars look bright and far, I'll think of thee--my _guiding star!_ When all save the beating heart is still, And the chainless fancy soars at will, When it lifts the dark veil from future years, And flutters and trembles with hopes and fears,-- When it turns to retrace the burning past, And the blinding tears come thick and fast-- And oh! when bending the humble knee At the throne of God--I will _pray_ for thee! And wilt thou sometimes think of me, When thy thoughts from this stormy world are free? When thou turnest o'erwearied from toil and strife The warring passions of busy life, May a still, small whispering, speak to thee, Like a touch on thy heartstring--Love, think of me. E. For the Southern Literary Messenger. INVOCATION TO RELIGION. Come blest Religion, meek-eyed maid, In all thy heavenly charms arrayed, Descend with healing in thy wing, And touch my heart while yet I sing. Heaven's own child of simple truth, The stay of age, the guide of youth, All spotless, pure and undefiled, How blest are those on whom you've smiled. Oh! come, as thou wert wont, and bless The widow and the fatherless-- Temper the wind to the shorn lamb, Pour on the wounded heart thy balm; Strew softest flowers, where e're they stray, And pluck, oh! pluck the thorns away. Come like the good Samaritan, Bind up the sick and wounded man; Not like the Priest thy love display-- Just look devout, and turn away. Oh! no--the bruised with kindness greet, And set the mourner on his feet. Teach me with warm affections pure, That holy Fountain to adore, From whence proceeds or life or thrift-- The source of every perfect gift: Teach me thy fear--thy grace impart, And twine thy virtues round my heart; With pity's dew suffuse my eye, And teach me heavenly charity-- That blessed love, which will not halt, Or stumble at a brother's fault; But with affection's tender care, Will still pursue the wanderer.