It was a winter's evening ;—clear, but still:
Bright was the fire, and bright the silvery beam
Of the fair moon shone on the window-sill,
And parlour floor;-the softly mingled gleam
Of fire and moonlight suited well a theme
Of pensive converse, unallied to gloom;
Ours varied like the subjects of a dream;
And turn'd, at last, upon the silent tomb,

Earth's goal for hoary age, and beauty's smiling bloom.

We talk'd of life's last hour,--the varied forms And features it assumes;-how some men die As sets the sun when dark clouds threaten storms, And starless night; others whose evening sky Resembles those which to the outward eye Seem full of promise :—and with soften'd tone, At seasons check'd by no ungrateful sigh, The death of one sweet grandchild of his own Was by that hoary man most tenderly made known.

She was, he said, a fair and lovely child
As ever parent could desire to see,

Or seeing, fondly love; of manners mild,
Affections gentle,—even in her glee,
Her very mirth from levity was free;

But her more common mood of mind was one
Thoughtful beyond her early age, for she

In ten brief years her little course had run,—
Many more brief have known, but brighter surely none.

Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad,
Yet those who knew her better, best could tell
How calmly happy, and how meekly glad
Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell:
Like to the waters of some crystal well,

In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen,
Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell
Glimpses of light more glorious and serene
Than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien.

But, though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile,
Had sweetness in it passing that of mirth;

Loving and kind, her thoughts, words, deeds, the while
Betray'd of childish sympathies no dearth:
She loved the wild flowers scatter'd over earth,
Bright insects sporting in the light of day,
Blithe songsters giving joyous music birth

In groves impervious to the noontide ray;- [gay. All these she loved as much as those who seem'd more

Yet more she loved the word, the smile, the look Of those who rear'd her with religious care; With fearful joy she conn'd that holy book, At whose unfolded page full many a prayer, In which her weal immortal had its share, Recurr'd to memory; for she had been trained, Young as she was, her early cross to bear; And taught to love, with fervency unfeign'd, The record of His life whose death salvation gain'd.

I dare not linger, like my ancient friend,

On every charm and grace of this fair maid;
For in his narrative the story's end

Was long with fond prolixity delay'd;

Though rightly fancy had its close portray'd
Before I heard it. Who but might have guess'd
That one so ripe for heaven would early fade
In this brief state of trouble and unrest;

Yet only wither here to bloom in life more bless'd?

My theme is one of joy, and not of grief; I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay, Nor stop to paint it, slowly, leaf by leaf, Fading, and sinking towards its parent clay: She sank, as sinks the glorious orb of day, His glories brightening at his journey's close! Yet with that chasten'd, soft, and gentle ray In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows, But on whose mellow'd light our eyes with joy repose.

Her strength was failing, but it seem'd to sink
So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear;

'Twas like a rippling wave on ocean's brink,
Which breaks in dying music on the ear,
And placid beauty on the eye; no tear,
Except of quiet joy, in hers was known :
Though some there were around her justly dear,
Her love for whom in every look was shown,

Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone.

One summer morn they miss'd her: she had been, As usual, to the garden arbour brought,

After their morning meal; her placid mien

Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought,
Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness was fraught;
And she was left amid that peaceful scene

A little space;-but when she there was sought,
In her secluded oratory green,

Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen.

They found her in her chamber, by the bed
Whence she had risen, and on the bedside chair,
Before her, was an open Bible spread;
Herself upon her knees; with tender care

They stole on her devotions, when the air

Of her meek countenance the truth made known ;
The child had died! died in the act of prayer!
And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan,

To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown.

BERNARD BARTON.

THE PAINTER'S DREAM.

As calm, by the tomb of Ali, dream'd
A Painter once before his eyes,
Sudden the shade of that Hero seem'd,
Like a being, born of Light, to rise.

All arm'd he stood, and sternly bright

As, on Ohod's field, he bore his brow, With that heron plume, before whose light The lords of the earth are proud to bow ;

And the two-edg'd sword, as erst it flamed
From rank to rank, the Battle's Star;
While foes, as fleet they fled, exclaim'd,
"There never was sword like Sulfakhar!"

But the eyes-the eyes-the matchless eyes,-
So sudden a light from their black orbs broke,
Like dawn, at once, out of midnight skies,
That the sleeper, dazzled, amazed, awoke!

Quick, quick, the pallet, inspired he took,
And, if ever the race of mortal men
Had a chance of knowing what Ali's look
Could be, in his might of fire, 'twas then!

Like magic beneath the Painter's touch,
Upkindled to life each manly grace;

But the eyes, the eyes—O far too much

Was the task for earth such eyes to trace.

Better that they were veiled, or blind,
So fancy, at least, might wander free,
Leaving all future woman-kind

To dream what eyes so bright must be!

L