And if we miss, O who may speak
What thoughts are hovering round
The pallet where thy fresh young cheek
Its evening slumber found?

How many a tearful longing look

In silence seeks thee yet,

Where in its own familiar nook

The fireside chair is set?

And oft when little voices dim

Are feeling for the note

In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn, And wavering wildly float,

Comes gushing o'er a sudden thought

Of her who led the strain,

How oft such music home she broughtBut ne'er shall bring again.

O say not so! the springtide air

Is fraught with whisperings sweet; Who knows but heavenly carols there With ours may duly meet?

Who knows how near, each holy hour,

The

pure and child-like dead

May linger, where in shrine or bower

The mourner's prayer is said?

And He who will'd, thy tender frame (O stern yet sweet decree!)

Should wear the Martyr's robe of flame, He hath prepar'd for thee

A garland in that region bright
Where infant spirits reign,
Ting'd faintly with such golden light
As crowns His Martyr train.

Nay, doubt it not: His tokens sure
Were round her death-bed shewn :

The wasting pain might not endure,
'Twas calm ere life had flown,

Even as we read of Saints of yore.
Her heart and voice were free

To crave one quiet slumber more
Upon her Mother's knee.

11.

PUNISHMENT.

"They shall accept of the punishment of their iniquity.

THE Scourge in hand of God or Man

Full deeply tries the secret soul.—

Yon dark-eyed maid, her bearing scan; The tear that from beneath her quivering eyelids stole,

The shade, that hangs e'en now

Upon her wistful brow,

It comes not all of shame or pain,

But she with pitying heart full fain

Would twice the penance burthen bear,

Might she the chastening arm, so lov'd and loving

spare.

So have I mark'd some faithful hound,
Recall'd by look and voice severe,

Come conscious of his broken bound,

And lowly cast him down as in remorseful fear,

One of the teachers true

Commission'd to imbue

Our dull hard hearts with heavenly skill,

With heavenly love our proud cold will.
How seems he penance to implore,
Patient in woe decreed, and humbly seeking more!

He who of old at Caiaphas' door
Denied th' eternal Holy One,-

In words denied, but own'd in store
Of penitential tears-why made he restless moan,

When the forgiving Eye

Had beam'd on him so nigh,

And thrice, for his denials three,

The Lord hath said, My Shepherd be?

Yet where his waking thoughts self-blame, And ever with cock-crowing tearful memory came.

For should the soul that loves indeed

Stoop o'er the edge of deadly sin,

And e'er so lightly taste its meed,

Though wonder-working grace might heal the wound within,

Yet may the scar and stain

To the last fire remain,

And love will mourn them: loyal Love

Will for the Holy Friend above

Lament in reverent sympathy,

Feeling upon her heart the griev'd and gracious Eye.

Alas for sullen souls, that turn

Keen wholesome airs to poison blight!

Touch'd with Heaven's rod, in ire they burn, Or in dim anguish writhe: beside them in its might

The saving Cross we rear,

They neither love nor fear ;

Each from his own unblessed tree

The five dread wounds unmov'd they see

O hard of heart!—and scornful say,

"Saviour, if such thou be, come chase our pangs away."

Th' impenitent would still abate

His pain, the mourner still enhance.

O Lord, I know my sin is great,

I would not hide away from thee in heartless trance;—