Thou art gone from us, bright one!-that thou should'st die,

And life be left to the butterfly!

Thou art gone, as a dew-drop is blown from the bough,

-Oh! for the world where thy home is now!

How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should even joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee!

F. H.

STANZAS.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

How sweet to sleep where all is peace,
Where sorrow cannot reach the breast,
Where all life's idle throbbings cease,
And pain is lulled to rest ;—
Escaped o'er fortune's troubled wave,
To anchor in the silent grave!

That quiet land where, peril past,
The weary win a long repose,
The bruised spirit finds, at last,
A balm for all its woes,

And lowly grief and lordly pride
Lie down, like brothers, side by side!

The breath of slander cannot come
To break the calm that lingers there;
There is no dreaming in the tomb,
Nor waking to despair;

Unkindness cannot wound us more,

And all earth's bitterness is o'er.

There the maiden waits till her lover come

They never more shall part ;

And the stricken deer has gained her home,

With the arrow in her heart;

And passion's pulse lies hushed and still, Beyond the reach of the tempter's skill.

The mother-she is gone to sleep,
With her babe upon her breast,—
She has no weary watch to keep
Over her infant's rest;

His slumbers on her bosom fair
Shall never more be broken-there!

For me for me, whom all have left,
-The lovely, and the dearly loved,-
From whom the touch of time hath reft
The hearts that time had proved,
Whose guerdon was-and is-despair,
For all I bore-and all I bear;

Why should I linger idly on,
Amid the selfish and the cold,

A dreamer-when such dreams are gone

As those I nursed of old!

Why should the dead tree mock the spring,

A blighted and a withering thing!

How blest-how blest that home to gain, And slumber in that soothing sleep, From which we never rise to pain,

Nor ever wake to weep!

To win my way from the tempest's roar,

And lay me down on the golden shore!

THE EMIGRANTS.

BY L. E. L.

Oh Love! oh Happiness! is not your home

Far from the crowded street, the lighted hall?

Are ye not dwellers in the vallies green,

In the white cottage? is not your abode

Amid the fields, the rivers, and the hills;

By the sea-shore-where, with its thousand waves,

The ocean casts its treasures of pink shells,

And makes its melancholy music?

THEY dwelt amid the woods, where they had built
Themselves a home ;-it was almost a hut,
And rudely framed of logs and piled-up wood;
But it was covered with sweet creeping shrubs,
And had a porch of evergreens: it stood
Beneath the shelter of a maple tree,

Whose boughs spread over it, like a green tent.
"Twas beautiful, in summer, with gay flowers,

Green leaves, and fragrant grass strewn on the floor;
And, in the winter, cheerful with its hearth,
Where blazed the wood fire, and its tapestry

Of soft rich furs-each a memorial

Of some escape, some toil, some hunter's chance,

And mixed with scarlet berries, and red plumes,

And glossy wings. There was one only thing
That spoke them strangers in the land, and told
The luxuries of other days: there hung
A Spanish maiden's ivory guitar,
With its rich fretting of gold ornament;

And that was often waked,-as memory lived
Chiefly on its dear chords; and she would sing,
That dark-eyed lady, sometimes when alone,-
And then her songs were sad: but when the eve
Came in the beauty of a June twilight,
With all its sleeping flowers, its dews, its clouds,
Touched with the sunset's crimson lingering,-
Or, when it came with its gay lighted hearth,
Sweet with the burning of the cedar wood,
Her voice was cheerful, as the sunny song
The lark pours to the morning and his mate;
For then her hunter sought his lonely bride,
And, like a victor, brought his trophies home.

It was a little nook,-as nature made,

In some gay mood, a solitude for love,

And, at her bidding, love had sought the place,
And made it paradise. On the west side,
Like a dark mountain, stood the forest old,
Guarding it from the wind,-which howled at night,
As if that wood were its chief treasure cave.

And, opposite, there was a clear small lake,

From whence the morning, like a beauty, came
Fresh from her bath;-the eye could span its breadth;

And green savannahs, on the further bank,