THE HEART AND LYRE.

SHE left her lyre within the hall,
When last she parted with her loved;
And still it hangs upon the wall -

He will not let it be removed.
Around that lyre of sweetest tone

She twined a wreath of roses fair; And, though their lovely hue is gone,

The withered blossoms still are there.

No hand hath touched its silver string
Since last she waked a parting lay:
To sweep its chords would only bring
A tuneless tale of its decay.
And there it hangs, slow mouldering,
Its sweetness gone, its passion quell'd;
And round it those dead roses cling,

Like withered hopes still fondly held.

And his sad mourning heart is such
No happy feeling it affords;
It cannot bear the lightest touch

Of mirth upon its ruined chords.
Her name to him they ne'er repeat,

It would but waken thoughts of wo; And though 'twas once so very sweet, He could not brook to hear it now.

He fixes on that lyre his eye

For hours, but never, never speaks; Unmoved he gazes, silently,

And only starts when some chord breaks.

It hath an echo in his heart,

Both mutely their bereavement bear:
In her affections both had part,
And both are left to perish there.

THE DEPARTED.

THEY are not there! where once their feet
Light answer to sweet music beat —
Where their young voices sweetly breathed,
And fragrant flowers they lightly wreathed.
Still flows the nightingale's sweet song -
Still trail the vine's green shoots along —
Still are the sunny blossoms fair;
But they who loved them are not there!

They are not there! by the lone fount
That once they loved at eve to haunt;
Where, when the day-star brightly set,
Beside the silver wave they met:
Still lightly glides the quiet stream
Still o'er it falls the soft moon beam;
But they who used its beams to share
With fond hearts by it, are not there!

They are not there! by the dear hearth
That once beheld their harmless mirth;
When through their joy came no vain fear,
And o'er their smiles no darkening tear:
Its burns not now a beacon-star;
'Tis cold and fireless as they are:
Where is the glow it used to wear?
'Tis felt no more they are not there!

MEMORY.

"Rather than have one bliss forgot,
Be all my pains remembered too."

MOORE:

AND wouldst thou advise me to mix with the crowd,
And strive to efface the remembrance of years;
When, though mists and misfortune too often might shroud,
One smile bath repaid me for long hours of tears?
And sayst thou that memory only can feed

The fever that preys on the desolate heart?
Oh! thou knowest not, unless thou hast felt it indeed,
What joy the remembrance of joy can impart!

There are things that are past, which I would not forget
For the brightest of pleasures that earth can now give;
Their bliss had a mixture of sorrow,
and yet

Like stars in the night of my bosom they live.

As on scenes we have passed, when by distance made soft,
We gaze the more fondly the further we go,

So, when years of our prime have gone over, how oft
We turn with delight to past pleasure and wo.

I once felt affections, more gentle and fond,

That shone o'er my soul, like the stars o'er the seas; And think'st thou my spirit can ever despond, While memory revives such emotions as these? Oh! how many a smile and affectionate word Remain through long years on the wo-blighted mind, When joy hath shot over its wastes, like a bird

That hath left a bright gift from its plumage behind!

And what though the vision of happiness flies

From the heart that had cherished it fondly before? Its flowers may be withered, but memory supplies Their vigor, and fragrance, and beauty once more. Oh! may my remembrances never depart!

May I still feel a bliss in beholding the past —
While memory over the gems of the heart
Shall, sentinel-like, keep her watch to the last.

KINDRED SPIRITS.

DROPS from the ocean of Eternity,

Rays from the centre of unfailing light,
Things that the human eye can never see,

Are spirits, yet they dwell near human sight!
But as the shattered magnet's fragment still,
Though far apart, will to each other turn,
So, in the breast imprisoned, spirits will
To meet their fellow spirits vainly burn ;-
And yet not vainly. If the drop shall pass

Through streams of human sorrow undefiled, If the eternal ray that heavenly was,

To no false earthly fire be reconciled, –
The drop shall mingle with its native main,
The ray shall meet its kindred ray again!

CAROLINE BOWLES.

"ALL high poetry must be religious," says Professor Wilson. And who that is conscious of possessing a soul which longs for immortality, but feels the truth of this doctrine? There is an aspiration in every mind for something higher, better, lovelier than can be found on earth; and it is the holiest office of poesy to embody in language these vague yearnings for happiness and purity, and paint, on the dark and torn canvass of human life, transparent and glowing pictures of heavenly beauty and tranquillity. Few writers have done this with more effect than Miss Bowles. There is a sincerity, a devotedness, ay, and an enjoyment too, in her religious musings, which shows that Christian feeling has elevated the poetic sentiment in her heart till she can sing of the "better land" with the sure and sweet conviction of its reality and blessedness.- Would that we had room for a larger number of extracts from this poetess, as her effusions are not as well known in our country as they deserve to be. Her volume entitled "Solitary Hours" has never been reprinted here. And it is only through the Annals and Periodicals that, occasionally, a strain of hers is wafted across the Atlantic. But every true sister of the lyre feels a companionship with Caroline Bowles. And she is a model to which we delight to direct the attention