Even 'midst the darkness left
O'er the home of thee bereft,
From thy spirit's radiant track
Who, O who would call it back!

When the rainbow shines o'erhead,
Mourn we for the dew-drop fled ?
Or when springs the flower on high,
That the buried seed should die?
Far less bright than thou art now,
Flower of earth or heavenly bow.

Brother, like some silenced tone
Of sweet music art thou gone!
Ere thy light of youth grew dim,
God hath taken thee to Him,-
-Welcome were the hour to me,
Brother, to lie down with thee!

LYDIA.

JOHN PIERPONT.

Miss Lydia B. Gates, only daughter of Colonel William Gates, of the United States Army, died at Fort Columbus, Governor's Island, New York, February 28th, 1839, aged 19.

I SAW her mother's eye of love

As gently on her rest,

As falls the light of evening's sun
Upon a lily's breast.

And the daughter to the mother raised
Her calm and loving eye,

As a lake, among its sheltering hills,
Looks upward to the sky.

I've seen a swelling rose-bud hang

Upon its parent stem,

Just opening to the light, and graced

With many a dewy gem,

And, ere that bud had spread its leaves

And thrown its fragrance round,

I've seen it perish on its stem,
And drop upon the ground.

So, in her yet unfolding bloom,
Hath Lydia felt the blast;

A worm unseen hath done its work ;-
To earth the bud is cast,

And on her lowly resting-place,

As on the rose-bud's bed

Drops from the parent tree are showered,

Her parents' tears are shed.

And other eyes there are that loved

Upon that bud to rest;

There's one who long had hoped to wear

The rose upon his breast;
Who'd watched and waited lovingly

Till it was fully blown,

And who had e'en put forth his hand,
To pluck it as his own.

A stronger hand than his that flower
Hath gathered from its tree!
And borne it hence, in paradise
To bloom immortally;

And all that breathe the fragrance there
That its young leaves exhale,

It shall remind of Sharon's rose,-
The lily of the vale.

The soldier father have I seen
Suppress a struggling sigh,
And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her,
Stood trembling in his eye;-
No other daughter, in his arms,
Had ever slept, a child,

No other daughter, on his knee,
Had ever sat and smiled.

And he was far away from her,
But for her had his fears,

And anxious thoughts, upon his brow,
Had left the stamp of years;

And now the grave hath, from his hand, Received its sacred trust,

And father's, mother's, lover's tears

Have mingled with her dust.

Peace to her dust! for, surely, peace
Her gentle spirit knows;

Around her narrow house, on earth,
The night wind sadly blows,

But heavenly airs, that through the trees

Of life forever play,

Are breathing on her spirit's brow,

To dry her tears away.

CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken:
She is a widow-she is old and poor:
Her only hope is in that sacred :oken

Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er;
She asks no wealth nor pleasure-begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the

sight

Of her Redeemer. Skeptics! would you pour

Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night?

She lives in her affections; for the grave
Has closed upon her husband, children: all
Her hopes are with the arms she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are

small,

Though she has never mounted high, to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings cannot pall

Her unperverted palate, but will bring

A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave

The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers-so softly pour

The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, Long bowed before her Maker; then no more

She muses on the grief of former days; Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.

And Faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her: Death will come-
A few short moments over, and the prize

Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow: all its gloom
Is scattered what a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here, and the bloom

Of new life from those cheeks shall never fleeTheirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.

MY SISTER.

IN the cold grave she sleeps,

The wakeless, dreamless slumber; round my heart
Her memory twineth. It will ne'er depart,
For Thought a vigil keeps

Beside it, like a watcher by a tomb,

Mourning unceasingly her early doom