Oh! drops by years of anguish cheaply bought,
Could he but wash away the ruin he has wrought!
may not be !—already on his brow,
Cain-like is stamp'd, the burning mark of shame : And the chill hand of Scorn is pointing now
Its with ring finger, at his blighted name;
It may not be !-ere sinks another sun,
Self-murder crowns his guilt,-Despair's last work is
MRS. CORNWELL-BARON WILSON.
MY SISTER'S GRAVE.
THE noon-day sun is riding high,
Along the calm and cloudless sky;
The mantle of its gorgeous glow
Floats sleepily o'er all below;
And heaven and earth are brightly gay
Beneath the universal ray :
But not a wandering sunbeam falls
Within these high and hallowed walls,
Which echo back my lonely tread,
Like solemn answers from the dead;
-The murmurs steal along the nave,
And die above my sister's grave!
'Tis evening-still I linger here;
Yet sorrow speaks not in a tear!
The silence is so sadly deep,
The place so pure, I dare not weep:
I sit as in a shapeless dream,
Where all is changing, save its theme;
And if a sigh will sometimes heave
A heart that loves but may not grieve,
It seems as though the spirits round
Sent back reproachfully the sound;
And then I start and think I have
A chiding from my sister's grave!
The feeling is a nameless one
With which I sit upon thy stone,
And read the tale I dare not breathe,
Of blighted hope that sleeps beneath.
A simple tablet bears above
Brief record of a father's love,
And hints, in language yet more brief,
The story of a father's grief;
Around the night-breeze sadly plays,
With 'scutcheons of the elder days;
And faded banners dimly wave
On high, right o'er my sister's grave.
Lost spirit!-thine was not a breast
To struggle vainly after rest;
Thou wert not made to bear the strife,
Nor labour through the storms of life:
Thy heart was in too warm a mould
To mingle with the dull and cold;
And every thought that wronged thy truth,
Fell like a blight upon thy youth:
Thou should'st have been, for thy distress
Less pure, and, oh! more passionless;
For sorrow's wasting mildew gave
Thy beauty to my sister's grave.
But all thy griefs, my girl, are o'er.-
Thy fair blue eyes will weep no more;
'Tis sweet to know thy fragile form
Lies safe from every future storm.
Oft as I haunt the dreary gloom,
That gathers round thy peaceful tomb,
I love to see the lightning stream
Along thy stone with fitful gleam;
To fancy in each flash are given
Thy spirit's visitings from heaven;
And smile to hear the tempest rave
Above my sister's quiet grave!
THE BRIDEGROOM'S SISTER.
LOUISE! you wept, that morn of gladness
Which made your Brother blest;
And tears of half-reproachful sadness
Fell on the bridegroom's vest :
Yet, pearly tears were those, to gem
A sister's bridal diadem.
No words could half so well have spoken,
What thus was deeply shewn
By Nature's simplest, dearest token,
How much was then my own;
Endearing her for whom they fell,
And thee, for having loved so well.
But now no more—nor let a brother,
Louise, regretful see,
That still 'tis sorrow to another,
That he should happy be.
Those were, I trust, the only tears
That day should cost through coming years.
We three the time will while.
And when sometimes a season parted,
Still think of us and smile.
But come to us in gloomy weather;
We'll weep, when we must weep, together.
SUMMER EVENING AT THE FARM.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creeking comes the empty wain ;
And driver on the shaft-horse sits
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft with his accustomed call
Urging on the sluggish Ball.
The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thrasher puts his jacket on;
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead Kite up to the wall.
Here comes Shepherd Jack at last,
He has penned the sheep-cote fast;
For 'twas but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor.
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.
With lolling tongue, he runs to try
If the horse-trough is not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And
supper-messes in the cans;
In the oval carts are wheeled,
And both the colts are drove a-field.
The snare for mister fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet;
And Bess has stolen away to talk
With Roger in the holly-walk.
FRIENDSHIP DESTROYED.
ALAS! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
|