Life were a mockery, thought were woe,
And truth a lie ;

Heaven were a coinage of the brain;
Religion frenzy, virtue vain,

And all our hopes to meet again,
Casa Wappy!

Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,

A star, death's uncongenial wild
Smiling above!

Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Casa Wappy!

Yet 't is sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,

That heaven is God's, and thou art there,

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled,

In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.

VIII.

sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.]

I.

DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east,

And one of them shot in the west by the sea.

And some one came out of the cheers in the street With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! - I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.

A second time did Matthew stop;
And, fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

"And just above yon slope of corn

Such colors, and no other, Were in the sky that April morn, Of this the very brother.

"With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave,

And, coming to the church, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave.

"Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale;

And then she sang ;

A very nightingale.

she would have been

"And, turning from her grave, I met
Beside the churchyard yew
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

"A basket on her head she bare;

Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight!

"No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

"There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine;

I looked at her, and looked again:
And did not wish her mine!"

Matthew is in his grave, yet now
Methinks I see him stand
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

HESTER.

WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor.

THE LOST SISTER.

THEY waked me from my sleep, I knew not why, And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp Gleamed from an inner chamber. There she lay,

With brow so pale, who yester-morn breathed

forth

Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss Into the hearts of others. By her side

Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed Upon the stricken idol, — all dismayed

Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nursed That fair young creature at her gentle breast, And oft those sunny locks had decked with buds

Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wiped the dews Which death distils.

The sufferer just had given Her long farewell, and for the last, last time Touched with cold lips his cheek who led so late

Her footsteps to the altar, and received
In the deep transport of an ardent heart

Her vow of love. And she had striven to press
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand
Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave
At the bright bridal morn. So there she lay
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast
The dreaded bitterness of death had passed.
- But a faint wail disturbed the silent scene,
And in its nurse's arms a new-born babe
Was borne in utter helplessness along,
Before that dying eye.

Its gathered film Kindled one moment with a sudden glow Of tearless agony, and fearful pangs, Racking the rigid features, told how strong A mother's love doth root itself. One cry Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer, Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence sank, Her spirit entered there.

DAY dawned; within a curtained room, Filled to faintness with perfume,

A lady lay at point of doom.

Day closed; a child had seen the light:
But, for the lady fair and bright,
She rested in undreaming night.
Spring rose; the lady's grave was green;
And near it, oftentimes, was seen
A gentle boy with thoughtful mien.
Years fled; he wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race,
And won at last a lofty place.
And then he died! behold before ye
Humanity's poor sum and story;
Life Death-

- and all that is of Glory.

BARRY CORNWALL.

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

[The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln. Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in painting his picture at the White House, he was alone one evening with the President in his room, when he said: "There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain."]

O, WHY should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.