Came, blended with the airs of eventide, When, through the glimmering aisle, faint " MISERE RES" died! But all is silent now!-silent the bell That, heard from yonder ivied turret high, Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell; Silent the vesper-chaunt-the litany Responsive to the organ!-scattered lie The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches grey,— Whilst hollow winds, through mantling ivy, sigh! And e'en the mouldering shrine is rent away, Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay. Now, look upon the sister faue of Wells!— It lifts its forehead in the lucid air ; Sweet, o'er the champain, sound its sabbath bells, Its roof rolls back the chaunt, or voice of prayer. Anxious we ask, will heaven that temple spare, Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state? Oh! say, shall time revere the fabric fair, Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate, Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate? No! to subdue or elevate the soul, Our best, our purest feelings to refine, Still shall the solemn diapasons roll Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, shine F From the tall windows, on the sculptured shrine, Tinging the pavement! for He shall affordHe who directs the storm-His aid divine, Because its Sion has not left thy word, Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord! A WOMAN'S PRIDE. THE pride that I feel is the violet's pride, To pride in his love, though death followed the bliss. The pride that I feel is the pride of the rose, The pride that I feel is the pride of the maid Then chide me not for my pride in thee, Oh! blame not the heart that is all thine own,- MONA. TO THE DEPARTED. BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. SLEEP on-for thou art calm at last; Yet rays of glory, at its close, Burst forth, whose lustre, lingering yet, Reveals, to faith's uplifted eye, How blest thine immortality! Yes!-thine is now a brighter doom, While he who shared thine hours of gloom, Is left to suffer and repine Oh not repine!-sad heart, be still! And let it teach thee to resign, I will not mourn thee, dearest-no!- STANZAS TO A LADY. BY T. K. HERVEY. ACROSS the waves away and far, I love thee as men love a star, The brightest where a thousand are, With love unstained by hopes or fears, Too deep for words, too pure for tears! My heart is tutored not to weep; Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep, Hallows the hours I love to keep For only thee and heaven; Too far and fair to aid the birth Of thoughts that have a taint of earth! And yet, the days for ever gone, Living 'mid flowers and leaves alone, And singing in so soft a tone As I never since have heard, |