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Six weeks, beneath the moving sea,
He lay in slumber quietly :
Unforced, by wind or wave,
To quit the ship for which he died,
(All claims of duty satisfied :)
And there they found him at her side,
And bore him to the grave.

Vain service ! yet not vainly done,
For this, if other end were none,
That he, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet
For such a gentle soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturbed retreat
Near what he loved, at last ;

That neighbourhood of grove and field
To him a resting-place should yield.
A meek man and a brave !
The birds shall sing, and ocean make
A mournful murmur, for his sake;
And thou, sweet flower, shalt sleep and wake
Upon his senseless grave !

MARGARET.

"TWAS summer, and the sun had mounted high :
Southward, the landscape indistinctly glared
Through a pale steam : but all the northern downs,
In clearest air ascending, showed far off
A surface dappled o'er with shadows, flung
From brooding clouds :
Shadows that lay in spots
Determined and unmoved, with steady beams
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ;
Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss
Extends his careless limbs along the front
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts
A twilight of its own, an ample shade,
Where the wren warbles; while the dreaming man,
Half conscious of the soothing melody,
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene,
By power of that impending covert thrown,
To finer distance ! Other lot was mine ;
Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain
As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy.
Across a bare wide common I was toiling
With languid steps that by the slippery ground
Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse
The host of insects gathering round my face,
And ever with me as I paced along.

Upon that open level stood a grove, The wished-for port to which my course was bound. Thither I came, and there-amid the gloom Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elmsAppeared a roofless hut; four naked walls That stared upon each other! I looked round, And to my wish and to my hope espied Him whom I sought ; a man of reverend age, But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. "There was he seen upon the cottage bench, Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep : An iron-pointed shaft lay at his side.

Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose, And ere our lively greeting into peace Had settled, “ 'Tis,” said I, “a burning day ; My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems, Have somewhere found relief.” He, at the word, Pointing towards a sweet-brier, bade me climb The fence, where that aspiring shrub looked out Upon the public way. It was a plot Of garden-ground run wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, The gooseberry-trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o’erleap The broken wall. I looked around, and there, Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well

Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern.
My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned,
Where sate the old man on the cottage bench;
And while, beside him, with uncovered head,
I yet was standing, freely to respire,
And cool my temples in the fanning air,
Thus did he speak :—“I see around me here
Things which you cannot see: we die, my friend ;
Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth,
Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon
Even of the good is no memorial left.
- The poets, in their elegies and songs
Lamenting the departed, call the groves,
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,
And senseless rocks; nor idly-for they speak
In these their invocations, with a voice
Obedient to the strong creative power
Of human passion. Sympathies there are
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth,
That steal upon the meditative mind,
And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood,
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond
Of brotherhood is broken : time has been
When, every day, the touch of human hand
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up
In mortal stillness : and they ministered
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink,
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years; and subject only

To the soft-handling of the elements :
There let the relic lie-fond thoughts-vain words !
Forgive them ;-never-never did my steps
Approach this door, but she who dwelt within
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her
As my own child. Oh! sir, the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks,
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn
From that forsaken spring ; and no one came
But he was welcome; no one went away
But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead,
The light extinguished of her lonely hut,
The hut itself abandoned to decay,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave !

“I speak,” continued he, “ of one whose stock Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. She was a woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love, Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy. Of her own thoughts : by some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A being, who, by adding love to peace, Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded partner lacked not on his side The humble worth that satisfied her heart; Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom, In summer, ere the mower was abroad

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