Saw ye not the wheels of fire,
And the steeds that cleft the wind i
Saw ye not his soul aspire,
When his mantle dropp'd behind?

Ye who caught it as it fell,
Bind that mantle round your breast;
So in you his meekness dwell,
So on you his spirit rest!

Yet, rejoicing in his lot,
Still shall Memory love to weep
O'er the venerable spot
Where his dear cold relics sleep.

Grave! the guardian of his dust,
Grave! the treasury of the skies,
Every atom of thy trust
Rests in hope again to rise.

Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls—
"Soul, rebuild thine house of clay;
Immortality thy walls,
And Eternity thy day!"

THE THUNDER-STORM.

O For evening's brownest shade!

Where the breezes play by stealth In the forest-cinctured glade,

Round the hermitage of Health:
While the noon-bright mountains blaze
In the sun's tormenting rays.

O'er the sick and sultry plains,
Through the dim delirious air,

Agonizing silence reigns,
And the wanness of despair:

Nature faints with fervent heat,

Ah! her pulse hath ceased to beat!

MONTGOMERY'S POEMS.

The gliding moon, through heaven serene

Pursued her tranquil way,
And shed o'er all the sleeping scene

A soft nocturnal day.

With swelling heart and eager feet
Young Edmund gain'd the church

And chose his solitary seat
Within the dreadful porch.

Thick, threatening clouds, assembling soon,
Their dragon wings display* d;

Eclipsed the slow-retiring moon,
And quench'd the stars in shade.

Amid the deep abyss of gloom

No ray of beauty smiled,
Save, glistening o'er some haunted tomb,

The glowworm's lustre mild.

The village watch-dogs bay'd around,

The long grass whistled drear,
The steeple trembled to the ground,

Ev'n Edmund quaked with fear.

All on a sudden died the blast,

Dumb horror chill'd the air,
While Nature seem'd to pause aghast,

In uttermost despair.

Twelve times the midnight herald toli'd,

As oft did Edmund start;
For every stroke fell dead and cold

Upon his fainting heart.

Then glaring through the ghastly glooic,

Along the churchyard green,
The destined victims of the tomb

In winding sheets were seen.

To shun the visionary maid
His speed outstript the wind;

But,—though unseen to move,—the shade
Was evermore hehind!

So Death's unerring arrows glide,

Yet seem suspended still;
Nor pause, nor shrink, nor turn aside,

But smite, subdue, and kill.

O'er many a mountain, moor, and vale,

On that tremendous night,
The ghost of Ella, wild and pale,

Pursued her lover's flight.

But when the dawn began to gleam

Ere yet the morning shone,
She vanish'd like a nightmare-dream,

And Edmund stood alone.

Three days, bewilder'd and forlorn,

He sought his home in vain;
At length he hail'd the hoaiy thorn

That crown'd his native plain.

'Twas evening:—all the air was balm,

The heavens serenely clear;
When the soft music of a psalm

Came pensive o'er his ear.

Then sank his heart;—a strange surmise

Made all his blood run cold:
He flew—a funeral met his eyes!

He paused—a death-bell toll'd.

"'Tis she! 'tis she !"—he burst away;

And bending o'er the spot
Where all that once was Ella lay,

He all beside forgot!