Then hush, oh! hush the swelling sigh, and dry the

idle tear!

Look out upon that glorious Heaven, and joy that he

is there!

II.

Already hath he gained the goal, and tasted of the bliss,

The peace that God's pervading love prepares for souls like his;

He hovers round the Throne of thrones on light and filmy wings,

The Ariel of attendant sprites upon the King of

kings!

Then calm thy sorrow-stricken heart, and smile away

despair;

Think of the home thy child hath won, and joy that he is there!

N

III.

When summer evening's golden hues are burning in the sky,

And odorous gales from balmy bowers are breathing

softly by;

When earth is bright with sunset's beams, and flowers are blushing near,

And grief, all chastened and subdued, is gathering to a

tear;

How sweet 'twill be, at such an hour, and 'mid a scene

so fair,

To lift thy streaming eyes to Heaven, and think that he is there!

IV.

And when that fatal hour arrives, the hour that all must

brave,

Ere thy full ear of life be reaped and garnered in the

grave;

Whilst deeply musing on the fate our prayers may not

defer,

What ardent longings after bliss each failing pulse will

stir;

How sweet will be the glance to Heaven-the Heaven thou soon may'st share!—

The memory of thy buried babe-the hope to meet him there!

NOTES.

Note 1, page 1.

On Santa Croce's golden-pillared shrine.

It may be proper to remind the reader that the Profession of a Nun differs, in its minor details, according to the country wherein the ceremony is performed. The poem which has given occasion for the present note is intended as a sketch, with some unimportant additions, of this singularly imposing rite as observed within the last few years in the southern parts of Italy, but more especially at Naples. It is somewhat remarkable that the various books of Travels which have been published descriptive of Italy, and the manners and customs of its natives, contain no succinct account, from the testimony of an eye-witness, of the Profession of a Nun; and still more curious, that the only description calculated to convey a correct impression of this remarkable ceremony should be found in a work of fiction, namely, in Mrs. Radcliffe's splendid romance of