O much we miss thee, when young Morning throws

Her robe of golden dye

Along the eastern sky;

And much we miss thee till the day-beam's close;

But most we miss thee at the twilight hour,

When, borne on spirits' wings

Sweet thoughts of holy things

Sink deeply in the heart with magic power;
And at the tranquil time, when prayer

Is wont to charm the silent air,
O it is saddening not to see thee stand
Amid the household band!

Sister, dear sister, wilt thou never come,
To cheer our lone and humble home?

The pretty flowers, thy worshipp'd idols, pine,

And their bright leaflets seem

Less fresh and fair to beam,

Since on their cups thine eye hath ceas'd to shine. Whene'er beside their fragrant beds I stray,

Each sweet and lovely one

I chance to gaze upon,

Lifts up its head, as it did wish to say,

'Ah! whither hath she gone? We yearn

For her! when, when will she return?' O, in their name, I pray thee, Sister, come, And go no more from home!

TO MARY.

BEAUTIFUL One! it is a bliss to gaze

Upon thy brow, where smiles are ever glowing, Sweet as the mellow light which sports and plays Around the West when bright-eyed Day is going.

It is a bliss-and yet, alas! there steals

A fearful thought upon the gazer's bosom— Time, 'neath his wing, some cup, perchance, conceals, Whose draught will blight thy hopes before the blossom.

Young Love, enamored of thine angel lip,
Rich as the crimson sky of sun-set parted,

In thy heart's fountain his light plume may dip,
Wake strangest joy-but leave thee broken-hearted!

Pale Care a shadow o'er thy path may cast,

And Sorrow steal from thee of joy each token,

And Anguish wring thy spirit, till, at last,
It be a sweet-toned harp, unstrung and broken.

O may it not be thus! But to thy way,

Bright creature! be the richest raptures given, Till, like the star, which heraldeth the day,

Thou melt'st away into the light of Heaven! 12

THE SWISS EXILE.

He was not old, and yet his locks were white, Like silver; and his eye had lost its fire,Speaking no more the mighty language, which It spake in youth. He had been wandering For many years from clime to clime, and grief Had dried the fountains of his heart, and quench'd The light of joy, which had been wont to cast A heavenly hue on every thing around him.

It was but yester-eve he pass'd our door.
Weary and faint with travel-for the day
Had been a sultry one-he sat him down
By the road-side to rest his way-worn limbs.
It pleased me and yet I pitied him-

To note how he did gaze upon a hill,

Which rose near by, its sides wrapped in a mantle Of the freshest green, with here and there a tree,