WHEN WE GIVE UP THE DEAD.

AROUND the couch may hover Death,

And steal away the parting breath;

The sheet and shroud in pallid fold
May wrap our prostrate friends and cold,
Yet 'tis not then we give them up,
And taste grief's bitterest cup.

Their forms are in the coffin laid,

And earth's last sacred rite is paid;
The lid is closed, the grating screw
For ever shuts them from our view,
Yet 'tis not then we give them up,

And taste grief's bitterest cup.

But when the grave we gather round,
And lay them in the cold, damp ground,

And o'er its dark edge eager bend,

And hear the rumbling earth descend,—

Ah! then it is we give them up,

And taste grief's bitterest cup.

THE RUIN.

HERE once were gathered round thy hearth

The bright, the

young, the gay,

The joyous heart of buoyant mirth,

The head of silvery gray,

And woman's smile, and man's caress,

And childhood's laughing glee,

The maiden in her bridal dress,
Were often known to thee.

And brightly through the festal hall
The cheek of Beauty glowed,

And Music stirred the hearts of all,

The sparkling goblet flowed; And as was sipped the brimming cup,

And glared the inebriate eye,

Loud on the midnight air went up

The wild festivity.

Here, too, the widow mourned her lord,

The orphan pined his lot,

And Death broke many a silken chord,

And Beauty smiled for naught;

And swept the busy round of life

Like April shadows by,

The fierce conflicting scenes of strife,
Man's wo and revelry.

And here moved on the gorgeous train
Of pompous pageantry,

The fierce blood dancing in each vein,
The proud heart beating free,
The chieftain on his bounding steed,

With plume of gaudy dye,

The war-horse dashing at full speed,
The banner borne on high.

And far o'er hill, and moat, and vale,
Pealed loud the bugle horn,

And deep-toned drum, and clashing mail,

And martial clarion;

And fearful flashed the sabre's gleam,

And boomed the cannon's breath,

And bubbled warm life's crimson stream

Along the field of death.

A SONNET.

'Tis past the noon of night! and I am lone,
And mournful still: I have relived the past-
The visions that were far too pure to last-
The memories of the good and early known
Back from the gulf of time again have flown :

And I have held sad converse with the dear,
Though lost, and shed the sympathetic tear,
And clasped the hand of those for ever gone.
Long days, and sleepless nights, and weary weeks-
Dark Melancholy, thou hast held thy sway!—
Driven each pleasing thought with hope away,

And drenched with burning floods my pallid cheeks— Oh! wilt thou ne'er return-bright Poesy!

And from her dismal thrall my spirit free?

THE GENERAL ON HIS BIER.

He sleeps upon his sable bier

How calm and still!

No battle-cries his pulses stir

No war-notes shrill.

Was flushed with life,

And from those eyes fierce flashed the glow
Of noble strife.

Each vein thrilled with the dancing blood

Of courage strong,

Whose faintest signs with fire imbued

His soldier throng.

That stout arm swung the sabre keen
On the red field-

That dauntless heart to armies then

Disdained to yield.