THE SISTER'S GRAVE.

BY A YOUNG LADY.

I HAD a little sister once,

And she was wondrous fair;
Like twined links of the yellow gold
Was the waving of her hair.

Her face was like a day in June,
When all is sweet and still,

And the shadows of the summer clouds
Creep softly o'er the hill.

O my sister's voice-I hear it yet,

Like the singing of a joyous bird,

When the summer months are near.

Sometimes the notes would rise at eve, So fairy-like and wild,

My mother thought a spirit sang,

And not the gentle child.

But then we heard the little feet
Come dancing to the door,
And met the gaze of brighter eyes
Than ever spirit wore.

And she would enter full of glee,
Her long fair tresses bound
With a garland of the simple flowers,
By mountain streamlets found.

She never bore the garden's pride,
The red rose, on her breast;

Our own sweet wild-flower ever loved
The other wild-flowers best.

Like them she seemed to cause no toil,

To give no pain or care,

But to bask and bloom on a lonely spot
In the warm and sunny air.

And, oh! like them as they come in spring, And with summer's fate decay,

She passed with the sun's last parting smile, From life's rough path away.

And when she died, 'neath an old oak-tree My sister's grave was made,

For when on earth she used to love

Its dark and pensive shade.

And every spring in that old tree

The song-birds build their nests, And wild-flowers blow on the soft Where my dead sister rests.

And the children of our village say
That on my sister's tomb

green turf

The wild-flowers are the last that fade,
And the first that ever bloom.

There is no stone raised there to tell

My sister's name and age,
For that dear name in every heart
Is carved on memory's page.

We miss her in the hour of joy,
For when all hearts were light,
There was no step so gay as hers,
No eyes so glad and bright.

We miss her in the hour of woe,
For then she tried to cheer,

And the soothing words of the pious child
Could dry the mourner's tear.

Even when she erred we could not chide,
For though the fault was small,

She always mourned so much-and sued
For pardon from us all.

She was too pure for earthly love

Strength to our hearts was given,
And we yielded her in her childhood's light,
To a brighter home in heaven.

Blackwood's Magazine.

A. G.

TO A CHILD ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

MRS. HEMANS.

WHERE sucks the bee now ?-Summer is flying,
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying;
Violets are gone from the grassy dell,

With the cowslip-cups where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath pass'd away—
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day.

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled Ever around thee, my gentle child!

Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,

And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
Roses may vanish, but this will stay-

Happy and bright is thy natal day.

ON THE DEATH OF TWIN CHILDREN.

MISS S. T. WILLIAMS.

WHERE are ye now, sweet pair? Vacant is now your place of cradled rest : Ye slumber not upon a mother's breast, Where is your home-oh! where?

How beautiful ye were,

With your meek, peaceful brows, and laughing eyes, All eloquent of life's first energies,

And joy's bright fount, yet clear!

How blithely ye awoke

With each new day! familiar forms were there
To meet your eager glance-kind voices near
In gentle accents spoke.

Ye seemed then to be,

As some pale flower, that to the morning's light
Bears its frail stem, and spreads its petals bright,
As if confidingly.