SPINNING OF THE SHROUD.

Summer's breath, divinely warın,

Kindles every pulse to glee:
Fled are traces of the storm,
Wintry frost and leafless tree;
Shakes the birch its foliage light,
In the sun the mists are bright;
Heaven and earth their hues confound,
Scattering rainbows on the ground;
Life with rapture is replete,
While I spin my winding-sheet!

Summer's voice is loud and clear,
Lowing kine and rippling swell;
Yet beneath it all I hear

Something of a funeral knell.
Sings the linnet on the bough,
Sings my bridegroom at the plow;
Whirrs the grouse along the brake,
Plash the trout within the lake;
Soft the merry lambkins bleat,—
While I spin my winding-sheet!

Thatched with mosses green and red,
Blooming as a fairy hill,
Lifts my home its cheerful head
By the ever-leaping rill.
Lo! its future inmates rise,
Gathering round with loving eyes;
Some my Dugald's features wear,
Some have mine, but far more fair;
Prattling lips my name repeat,-~
While I spin my winding-sheet!

Youth is bright above my track,
Health is strong within my breast;

Wherefore must this shadow black

On my bridal gladness rest?

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On my happy solitude

Must the vision still intrude?

Must the icy touch of Death

Freeze my song's, impassioned breath?
I am young and youth is sweet;
Why, then, spin my winding-sheet?

Hark! the solemn winds reply:
"Woman, thou art born to woe;
Long ere 'tis thine hour to die,

Thou shalt be well pleased to go.
Though the sunshine of to-day
Blind thine eyeballs with its ray,
Grief shall swathe thee in its pall,
Life's beloved before thee fall:
Bride, the grave hath comfort meet,
Thankful spin thy winding-sheet !"

MRS. OGILVIE.

The Hour of Death.

L

EAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer— But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set--but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ?—
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

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Where is He?

AND where is he?

Not by the side

Of her whose wants he loved to tend; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend! That form beloved he marks no more;

Those scenes admired no more shall see-Those scenes are lovely as before,

And she as fair-but where is he?

No, no, the radiance is not dim
That used to gild his favorite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still :
But ah! his home is not so fair,
Neglected must his garden be—
The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, where is he?

His was the pomp, the crowded hall!
But where is now the proud display?

His riches, honors, pleasures, all

Desire could frame; but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands

Protected by the circling sea,— Surrounded by admiring bands,

Seemed proudly strong-and where is he?

The churchyard bears an added stone,
The fireside shows a vacant chair!
Here sadness dwells and weeps alone,
And death displays his banner there;
The life has gone, the breath has fled,
And what has been no more shall be;
The well-known form, the welcome tread,
Oh! where are they? and where is he?

HENRY NEele.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied-

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed-she had

Another morn than ours.

THOMAS HOOD.

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;