Even 'midst the darkness left When the rainbow shines o'erhead, Brother, like some silenced tone 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 And the daughter to the mother raised As a lake, among its sheltering hills, 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, So, in her yet unfolding bloom, A worm unseen hath done its work ;- 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; Till it was fully blown, And who had e'en put forth his hand, A stronger hand than his that flower And all that breathe the fragrance there It shall remind of Sharon's rose,- The soldier father have I seen No other daughter, on his knee, And he was far away from her, And anxious thoughts, upon his brow, 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 Around her narrow house, on earth, 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: Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er; 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 small, Though she has never mounted high, to fall Her unperverted palate, but will bring A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave 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 peace eternal waits her, and the tomb 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 Beside it, like a watcher by a tomb, Mourning unceasingly her early doom |