Came, blended with the airs of eventide, When, through the glimmering aisle, faint "

MISERE

RES" died!

But all is silent now!-silent the bell

That, heard from yonder ivied turret high, Warned the cowled brother from his midnight

cell;

Silent the vesper-chaunt-the litany

Responsive to the organ!-scattered lie

The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches grey,— Whilst hollow winds, through mantling ivy, sigh! And e'en the mouldering shrine is rent away, Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay.

Now, look upon the sister faue of Wells!—

It lifts its forehead in the lucid air ;

Sweet, o'er the champain, sound its sabbath bells,

Its roof rolls back the chaunt, or voice of prayer. Anxious we ask, will heaven that temple spare,

Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state? Oh! say, shall time revere the fabric fair,

Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate, Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate?

No! to subdue or elevate the soul,

Our best, our purest feelings to refine,

Still shall the solemn diapasons roll

Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, shine

F

From the tall windows, on the sculptured shrine, Tinging the pavement! for He shall affordHe who directs the storm-His aid divine,

Because its Sion has not left thy word,

Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord!

A WOMAN'S PRIDE.

THE pride that I feel is the violet's pride,
Which sleepily droops o'er the blue water's side,
But opens its eye, at the day-god's kiss,

To pride in his love, though death followed the bliss.

The pride that I feel is the pride of the rose,
Which, at evening tide, with a deeper blush glows,
When all is hushed, that her lover may sigh,-
Oh! is she not proud of his minstrelsy !

The pride that I feel is the pride of the maid
Whose lover ne'er came, but at evening shade,
When, with perfumed taper, she softly trod,
And found that her fair arm had cradled a god!

Then chide me not for my pride in thee,
Thou earth-born spirit of melody!

Oh! blame not the heart that is all thine own,-
If love forged its fetters--pride fastened them on!

MONA.

TO THE DEPARTED.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

SLEEP on-for thou art calm at last;
And all the wrongs, and all the woes
That marked thy weary wanderings past,
Have left thee to thy long repose.—
Thy sun of life midst tempests rose,
In storms and darkness hath it set;

Yet rays of glory, at its close,

Burst forth, whose lustre, lingering yet,

Reveals, to faith's uplifted eye,

How blest thine immortality!

Yes!-thine is now a brighter doom,
A bliss unchanging as divine;

While he who shared thine hours of gloom,
Whose tears were ever mixed with thine,

Is left to suffer and repine

Oh not repine!-sad heart, be still!

And let it teach thee to resign,
And bend thee to thy Father's will,
That she, whose sorrows were thine own,
Is blest at length-though blest alone!

I will not mourn thee, dearest-no!-
As one whose hope is quenched for aye;
The tears, unceasing, shall not flow
Which earth nor heaven can wipe away.
Rather, from realms of cloudless day,
A light shall pierce the circling gloom,
To cheer me on my weary way,
And guide the wanderer to his home ;-
A home, where all that grieved before
Is known-or is deplored—no more!

STANZAS TO A LADY.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

ACROSS the waves away and far,
My spirit turns to thee;

I love thee as men love a star,

The brightest where a thousand are,
Sadly and silently;

With love unstained by hopes or fears,

Too deep for words, too pure for tears!

My heart is tutored not to weep;
Calm, like the calm of even,

Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep,

Hallows the hours I love to keep

For only thee and heaven;

Too far and fair to aid the birth

Of thoughts that have a taint of earth!

And yet, the days for ever gone,
When thou wert as a bird,

Living 'mid flowers and leaves alone,

And singing in so soft a tone

As I never since have heard,