She was passing away soft as moonbeam that sleeps
On the lake's placid mirror where low the wind sweeps ;
She was passing away like the flow'ret that dies
Ere the shadows of night deep have mantled the skies;
Ere the last streak of sunset had pass'd from the wave,
Ere hope love and friendship, had found them a grave !

She was passing away,
she has pass'd-she has gone,
And her dwelling-place now is the cold church-yard lone,
And the form whereon beauty had set its own seal
Now the shroud and the coffin do darkly conceal,
And, a moment to earth, a brief moment but giv'n,
Far away she has pass'd to the blessed in heav'n !

She has gone, and the mourners their sables put on,
And wail for the lov'd that can never return,
And the tear, and the sigh, with mute eloquence speak
Of that which to-syllable words were but weak;
Her worth and her beauty, with talent combined;
Her patient submission-- her spirits resign'd!

She was passing away in her beauty's young bloom,
And in beauty undimm'd she has pass'd to the tomb;
And, a spirit of light, she is dwelling above,

- she is blest,

And joins the glad chorus, the chorus of love! -
She was passing away,
- she is gone
And eternal the sunbeam that gladdens her breast.

G.

The Sisters.

The Countess of Blessington.

MATILDA.

READ not so fast, dear sister; pause awhile,
For I would hear thy thoughts of her

who left

Her home her duty and the friends she loved,
To follow one unworthy.

LOUISA.

She was meant

For good; and, had she known a friend like thee

To whisper a fond warning in her ear,

She ne'er had left her calm and happy home,
Where here bright presence shed a sunshine round.
I blame, yet pity too: when punishment

Treads on the heels of error, I forget

The crime in mourning for the coming woe

Is it not so with thee?

MATILDA.

It is not so:

She who leaves

I pity; but remember:

An arrow in the loving mother's heart,

And dyes with the red blush of burning shame
The father's forehead and the brother's cheek,

LOUISA.

Deserves not pity! yet I weep for her;
For I behold her pining for her home,-

Praying once more to rest her aching brow
On that maternal breast which pillow'd it
In happy childhood, ere one single thought
Had quicken'd its pulsations.

MATILDA.

Think'st thou not

Of those she left in sorrow, bow'd with shame
For her who loosen'd every natural tie?
Remember, though she brought despair to all,
She thought not, cared not, till her lover grew
Indifferent cold: 't was then that fearfully

The recollection of her happier hours

Rush'd on her dreams, and she awoke a wretch
Whose days and nights were steep'd in bitterness!

Yet she liv'd on?

LOUISA.

MATILDA.

"T is true she did not die

Till many weary months had gloom'd away;
For sorrow kills not quickly. Well- she lived;

Yes, lived to know her mother's heart was broke -
To hear harsh curses from her father's tongue e!
Then lay she down upon her bed

A hireling's care, and prey!

LOUISA.

and died,

And where was he

The lover, the destroyer? where was he?

MATILDA.

Fled! T was a summer-love; the first wild cloud
(Sorrow or sickness) swept its bloom away.
He watch'd impatiently, from day to day,
The paleness dawning on her alter'd cheek,
And her remorse ev'n anger'd him. Her lips
Never reproach'd him; - but the bursting tears
She could not quell had tongues more loud than words;
And, when she greeted him no more with smiles,
He who had chased them left her to her grief
Thus drinking of her cup of bitterness,

She lived, and loved, and - died!

LOUISA.

Alas! poor girl!

She sinn'd and suffer'd,-loved, and died,—you say: 'T was some atonement: -I believe there dwells Immortal mercy, in the azure sky,

Too vast to let her suffer any more.

Now, she is dead, and thus hath paid her debt,
God will forgive her, for she pray'd to him
With a most contrite heart: methinks I see
Her soaring (once more stainless) to the stars,
An angel, not unerring, but redeem'd ;

Welcomed by angels. Now once more she lies
Upon her mother's heart, and once more wears
The sunny look of infancy.

From Heath's Book of Beauty, 1834.

Translation by Moore.

"I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;

I came to that beach when the sun was declining;
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

Ah such is the type of our life's early promise!

So, passing the spring-tide of joy we have known, Every wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us at-eve on-the-cold-beach alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night; Give me back, give me back, the bright freshness of morning!

Her smiles and her tears are worth evening's best light. Ah who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame, And his soul like the wood that grows precious in burning

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!"

The Blighted Bose.

How gay was its foliage, how bright was its hue,
How it scented the breeze that blew round it-

How carelessly sweet in the valley it grew
Till the blight of the mildew had found it.