To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves
Disowned their natural green, and took black
And mournful hue; and the rough brier, stretching
His straggling arms across the rivulet,

Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching
With his tenacious leaf, straws, withered boughs,
Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which
Swam with the current, and with these it hid
The poor Marcelia's death-bed. Never may net
Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope,
For not a fish abides there. The slim deer
Snorts as he ruffles with his shortened breath
The brook, and panting flies the unholy place,
And the white heifer lows, and passes on;
The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds
Go higher up the stream. And yet I love
To loiter there; and when the rising moon
Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks
Red and dilated through the evening mists,
And checkered as the heavy branches sway
To and fro with the wind, I stay to listen,
And fancy to myself that a sad voice.

Praying, comes moaning through the leaves, as 'twere
For some misdeed. The story goes that some
Neglected girl-an orphan whom the world

Frowned upon-once strayed thither, and 'twas thought
Cast herself in the stream. You may have heard
Of one Marcelia, poor Nolina's daughter, who
Fell ill and came to want? No! Oh, she loved
A wealthy man who marked her not. He wed,
And then the girl grew sick, and pined away,
And drowned herself for love.

An Invocation to Birds.

Come, all ye feathery people of mid air,

Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits
Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottoes cool;
And ye who on the flat sands hoard your eggs

For suns to ripen, come! O phoenix rare!
If death hath spared, or philosophic se: rch
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian-lonely nightingale!
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs
Until they waken. And thou, cuckoo bird,
Who are the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouched echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love-come all to my slow charm;
Come thon, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,
Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth-
Epithalamium and Pindarique song-

And with it enrich our ears; come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!

The following are from Mr. Procter's collection of 'Songs:'

Death of Amelia Wentworth.
AMELIA-MARIAN.

MARIAN. Are you awake, dear lady?
AMELIA. Wide awake.

There are the stars abroad, I see. I feel
As though I had been sleeping many a day.
What time o' the night is it?

MAR. About the stroke of midnight.
AMEL. Let it come. The skies are calm
And bright; and so, at last, my spirit is.
Whether the heavens have influence on the mind
Through life, or only in our days of death,
I know not; yet, before, ne'er did my soul
Look upwards with such hope of joy, or pine
For that hope's deep completion. Marion!
Let me see more of heaven. There-enough.

Nothing but cheerful words, thou idle girl.
Look, look, above! the canopy of the sky,
Spotted with stars, shines like a bridal-dress:
A queen might envy that so regal blue
Which wraps the world o' nights. Alas, alas!
I do remember in my follying days

What wild and wanton wishes once were mine,
Slaves-radiant gems-and beauty with no peer,
And friends (a ready host)-but I forget.

I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt
When I had hope to light me. Have you no song,
My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear?

There's one I've heard you sing: "They said his eye'—
No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit.
'His eye like the mid-day sun was bright'-

MAR. "Tis so.

His eye like the mid-day sun was bright,
Hers had a proud but a milder light,
Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon:
Alas! and must it fade as soon?

His voice was like the breath of war,
But hers was fainter-softer far;

And yet, when he of his long love sighed,
She laughed in scorn-he fled and died.

MAR. There is another verse, of a different air,

But indistinct-like the low moaning

Of summer winds in the evening: thus it runs

They said he died upon the wave,

And his bed was the wild and bounding billow; Her bed shall be a dry earth grave:

Prepare it quick, for she wants her pillow.

AMEL. How slowly and how silently doth time
Float on his starry journey. Still he goes,
And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away.
He rises with the golden morning, calmly,
And with the moon at night. Methinks I see
Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings,
Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men,
Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath.
Lo! I am here, and time seems passing on:
To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing-
Yet he will still be here; and the blue hours
Will laugh as gaily on the busy world
As though I were alive to welcome them.
There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles!
CHARLES enters.

CH. I am here.

Did you not call?

AMEL. You come in time. My thoughts Were full of you, dear Charles. Your motherI take that title-in her dying hour

Has privilege to speak unto your youth.

There's one thing pains me, and I would be calm.
My husband has been harsh unto me-yet
He is my husband; and you'll think of this
If any sterner feeling move your heart?
Seek no revenge for me. You will not?-Nay,
Is it so hard to grant my last request?
He is my husband: he was father, too,

Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once.
Do you remember how his eyelids closed
When the first summer rose was opening?
"Tis now two years ago-more, more: and 1-
I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy!
He was my only child. How fair he looked
In the white garment that encircled him-
"Twas like a marble slumber; and when we
Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed,
I thought my heart was breaking-yet I lived:
But I am weary now.

MAR. You must not talk,
Indeed, dear lady; nay-

CH. Indeed you must not.

AMEL. Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so.
For ere we journey, ever should we take

A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well,
And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind
Our blessings, So, in your breast, dear Charles,
Wear the remembrance of Amelia.

She ever loved you-ever; so as might.
Become a mother's tender love-no more.
Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world
Now almost thirty seasons: you have been

A child to me for one-third of that time.

I took you to my bosom, when a boy,

Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and vanish. You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd

Will feed upon it, if-but you must make

That heart a grave, and in it bury deep

Its young and beautiful feelings.

CH. I will do

CH. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint.
O mother, mother! I-I cannot weep.

Oh for some blinding tears to dim my eyes,
So I might not gaze on her! And has death
Indeed, indeed struck her-so beautiful;
So wronged, and never erring; so beloved
By one-who now has nothing left to love?
O thou bright heaven! if thou art calling now
Thy brighter angels to thy bosom-rest;
For lo! the brightest of thy host is gone-
Departed-and the earth is dark below.
And now-I'll wander far and far away,
Like one that hath no country. I shall find
A sullen pleasure in that life, and when
I say I have no friend in all the world,'

My heart will swell with pride, and make a show
Unto itself of happiness; and in truth
There is, in that same solitude, a taste

Of pleasure which the social never know.
From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger,
And, as the body gains a braver look,
By staring in the face of all the winds,

So from the sad aspects of different things
My soul shall pluck a courage, and bear up
Against the past. And now-for Hindustan.

REV. HENRY HART MILMAN.

[She dies.

The REV. HENRY HART MILMAN, long the accomplished and venerated Dean of St. Paul's, was a native of London, son of an eminent physician, Sir Francis Milman, and was born in the year 1791. He distinguished himself as a classical scholar, and in 1815 was made a fellow of Brazenose College, Oxford. He also held (1821) the office of professor of poetry in the university. In the church Mr. Milman was some time vicar of Reading; then rector of St. Margaret's Westminster; and finally (1849) dean of St. Paul's. He died September 24, 1868. Dean Milman first appeared as an author in 1817, when his tragedy of Fazio' was published. It was afterwards acted with success at Drury Lane Theatre. In 1820 he published a dramatic poem, The Fall of Jerusalem,' and to this succeeded three other dramas, 'Belshazzar' (1822), The Martyr of Antioch' (1822), and Anne Boleyn' (1826); but none of these were designed for the stage. He also wrote a narrative poem, 'Samor, Lord of the Bright City' (1818), and several smaller pieces. To our prose literature, Milmar