The bugles ceased their wailing sound
As the coffin was lower'd into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,
One moment's pause—and they left the dead !

I saw a poor and an aged man,
His step was feeble, his lip was wan;
He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground:
He raised his head, his tears were done,
The father had pray'd o'er his only son.

THE RUINED COTTAGE.

But other days And other fortunes came—an evil power. They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped For better times, but ruin came at last; And the old soldier left his own dear home, And left it for a prison : 'twas in June, One of June's brightest days—the bee, the bird, The butterfly, were on their lightest wings; The fruits had their first tinge of summer light; The sunny sky, the very leaves seem'd glad, And the old man look'd back upon his cottage And wept aloud :—they hurried him away, And the dear child that would not leave his side. They led him from the sight of the blue heaven And the green trees, into a low, dark cell, The windows shutting out the blessed sun With iron grating; and for the first time

He threw him on his bed, and could not hear
His Isabel's “ good night.” But the next morn
She was the earliest at the prison gate,
The last on which it closed, and her sweet voice
And sweeter smile made him forget to pine.
She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers,
But every morning could he mark her cheek
Grow paler and more pale, and her low tones
Get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew
Was on the hand he held. One day, he saw
The sunshine through the grating of his cell,
Yet Isabel came not; at every sound
His heart-beat took away his breath, yet still
She came not near him. For but one sad day
He mark'd the dull street through the iron bars
That shut him from the world; at length he saw
A coffin carried carelessly along,
And he was desperate—he forced the bars ;
And he stood on the street free and alone !
He had no aim, no wish for liberty-
He only felt one want, to see the corpse
That had no mourners : when they set it down,
Or ere 'twas lower'd into the new-dug grave,
A rush of passion came upon his soul,
And he tore off the lid, and saw the face
Of Isabel, and knew he had no child !
He lay down by the coffin quietly-
His heart was broken !

HON. MRS NORTON.
THE SAILOR BOY'S GRAVE.
Wher I was here three years ago,

This grave was not yet made;
And the fearless boy who sleeps below,

About the village play'd.
I think his mother loved him best

Of all her orphan crew;
And while she work'd for all the rest,

She thought, poor Jack ! of you.
He was a boy of lively parts,

And full of frolic glee;
And merry were the children's hearts

When Jack came home from sea.
But Heaven reclaim'd the gifts it lent,

And tried his soul with pains ;
The dread command on earth was sent,

And fever scorch'd his veins.
His sunburnt cheek grew wan and pale,

His bright black eye grew dim,
He grew too weak his boat to sail

Down by the river's brim ; And first, impatiently, he said,

“ I wish the wind blew free Upon my face and round my bed

Oh, that I were at sea !”
But soon he felt that never more,

(Though she was not a wreck,) That white-sail'd ship should leave the shore,

And he be on her deck.

He took his mother's hand in his,

And heaved a bitter sigh;
“Mother,” said he, “I feel it is

God's will that I should die !

“Remember me to all I loved

And those were all I knew;
For all to me have kindness proved,

The captain and the crew.
Tell them, that faint, and weak, and ill,

And sinking in the grave,
I thought upon my messmates still,

My brothers of the wave !"

Wild storms had met that vessel's track,

And broke the sea in foam ;
Loud winds had roar'd around, yet Jack

Had sail'd in safety home.
But now He call’d, who was his stay

Upon that boisterous tide,
And in bis bed, one sunny day,

The little sailor died !

THE ARAB TO HIS STEED.

Vy beautiful ! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and

fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy wingèd speed, I may not mount on thee again, thou ’rt sold, my Arab

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy

wind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind : The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his

goldFleet-limb'd and beautiful! farewell ! thou ’rt sold, my

steed, thou ’rt sold ! Farewell! those free untirèd limbs full many a mile must

roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's

home : Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed

prepare; That silky mane I braided once must be another's care. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy

speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab

steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may

chide, Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves along thy panting

side; And the rich blood, that's in thee, swells in thy indignant

pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each

started vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot

beThou art so swift, yet easy curb’d; so gentle, yet so free.