THE VOICELESS.

We count the broken lyres that rest

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,-
But o'er their silent sister's breast

The wild flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them;
Alas for those who never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone,

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross, without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

Oh, hearts that break and give no sign,
Save whitening lips and fading tresses,
Till death pours out his cordial wine,

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-
If singing breath or echoing chord

To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

SONG TO MARY.

If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep

for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side, that thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had passed, the time would e'er be

o'er

And I on thee should look my last, and thou shouldst smile

no more!

And still upon that face I look, and think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, that I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say what thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may, sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, all cold and all serene— I still might press thy silent heart, and where thy smiles have

been!

While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, thou seemest still mine own;

But there, I lay thee in thy grave—and I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, in thinking, too, of

thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn of light ne'er seen

before,

As Fancy never could have drawn, and never can restore!

CHARLES WOLFE.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away

I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pool could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heav'n

Than when I was a boy.

THOMAS HOOD.

LIFE.

A little basket cradle-bed:

A little shining curly head:

A little workman, spade in hand:
A little footprint on the sand.

A tremulous star : a wavering flute :
Two souls that speak, tho' lips are mute:
Two touching faces, fixed above:
Two kindred spirits, one through love.

A little cloudlet in the sky:
A mother's pang: an infant's cry:
An autumn leaflet, crisped and sear:
A thoughtful brow: a pensive tear.

A moonlit cypress, zephyr-stirred :
Two moving shadows, silver-haired :
Two mounds of grass upon the lea:
A gleam of Light beyond the sea.

SAMUEL K. COWAN.

[By kind permission of the author.]

REST.

Wandering thro' the city,

My heart was sick and sore,

Full of a feverish longing,

I entered an old church door.

Dark were the aisles and gloomy,—

Type of my troubled breast; Mournful and sad I paced there, Eager to be at rest.

Sudden the sunshine lighted

The arches with golden stream, Chasing the darksome shadows With brightly-glancing beam.

A chord pealed forth from the organ,
Tender, and soft, and sweet:
Trembling along the pavement

Like the tread of the angels' feet.

The light as a voice from Heaven
Bid all my care to cease;
The chord as a song of seraphs

Whispered of God's own Peace.

JOHN A. JENNINGS.