And when, intruding on her trance,
With trembling tones I spake,
Her soft reply was sweet to hear,

As music when we wake.

And when I ventur'd to declare,
That God rewardeth those

Whose loves survives the grave, a flush
Upon her cheek arose.

And then she spake her mother's name,
Her last, her only friend;

And look'd to heaven, as if she pray'd
Her spirit might ascend.

Consumption, like a blight, had blanch'd
The roses of her cheek;
And Death already seem'd to claim
That brow so palely meek.

She chided not, but by my side
Mov'd onwards to the gate;

Then cast a ling'ring look, that told
Her heart was desolate.

She was too weak to blame the aid
A stranger's presence gave;
And, leaning on my arm, she left
The precincts of the grave.

She talk'd to me of those who dwell

In blessedness above;

To whom the Lord a crown had giv❜n,
The recompense of love.

And then she told me, that since death
Had snatch'd her hope away,
Her spirits droop'd, as droops the vine
When sever'd from its stay.

Yet had she vow'd, while life should last,

At morn and eve to go,

And by her mother's tomb to plant
The fairest flowers that grow.

Then, passing by a cottage door,
She look'd into my face,

A look of thanks, and wav'd her hand
With mute expressive grace.

But through the night that maiden seem'd Beside my couch to stand,

As when beside her humble door

She wav'd her lily hand.

I could not sleep: within my mind
That maiden's image dwelt ;

And still I saw her, as when first
Beside the tomb she knelt.

She was an orphan; and her fate
To young and old was dear;

And none that heard her mournful tale
But graced it with a tear.

She was belov'd; for in that vale
Her sires held lordly sway;

But plunder'd of their wealth and home,
Within the earth they lay.

And she, the only scion now
Of that ancestral tree,

Was left to brave the ills of life
In friendless poverty.

Her mother, of an ancient race,
Of graceful mind and form,
Had stemm'd it long, but fell at last

A victim to the storm.

And she, the young and gentle maid,

Was left alone to die!

But God, in mercy and in love,

Had listen'd to her cry.

And by a slow and calm decline,

Her lamp grew daily dim;

And nights and days of painless woe
Were leading her to Him.

So spake the peasants, when I told
The adventures of that eve;
And still, whene'er they hear her name,

The village matrons grieve.

And never, though I wander'd free,
And mingled with the train
Of pleasure, could my mind shake off
Fond memory's pangless chain.

And when six moons had wax'd and wan'd,

I wander'd to that spot,

And vainly sought that maiden pale,

By her secluded cot.

I sought the church-yard's shaded space,
The sky was wrapp'd in gloom;
I saunter'd on,-no maiden bent
Beside the lonely tomb.

The sun just then from the dark west

A fitful radiance gave;

And the shadow of the mother's tomb

Fell on the daughter's grave.

W. B. C.

ELIJAH FED BY RAVENS.

BY GRAHAME.

SORE was the famine throughout all the bounds Of Israel, when ELIJAH, by command

Of God journey'd to Cherith's failing brook.
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn,
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale;
The withering herbage dies; among the palms
The shrivell'd leaves send to the summer gale
An autumn rustle; no sweet songster's lay
Is warbled from the branches; scarce is heard
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around,
And trusts in God, and lays his silver'd head
Upon the flowerless bank. Serene he sleeps,
Nor wakes till dawning: then, with hands enclaps'd,
And heavenward face, and eyelids clos'd, he prays
To Him who manna on the desert shower'd,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush.
Entranced the man of God remains; till, rous'd
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart,
He sees the ravens fearless by his side
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food.