The weeping willows kiss the dust and sigh,
While stately elms aspire towards the sky;
The gravell'd path we fain would lightly tread,
For here we muse amid the silent dead;
And ev'ry mound and sculptur'd stone attests
The burial-place of Man, who, mould'ring, rests
Beneath the peaceful sward. His earthly cares
Are o'er; his outer form dissolved-yet shares
His soul that brighter glory won above,
The fruit of long-abiding faith and love.
Yes! blest for ever is the Christian's strife-
'Tis here we meet the solemn Hush of Life!

ZARA'S EAR-RINGS.

J. G. LOCKHART.

[John Gibson Lockhart was editor of the "Quarterly Review," and son-inlaw of Sir Walter Scott. Enough this to link his name with the literary history of his own time, had it not been associated with his romances, "Valerius," "Adam Blair," "Reginald Dalton," and "Matthew Wald;" with his biographies of Burns and Napoleon, his "Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," and his splendid rendering of the "Spanish Ballads." In 1843 his politics procured for him a sinecure of 400l. a year, which he enjoyed till his death in 1854. He was born in 1793, his father being the Rev. Dr. John Lockhart, minister of the College Church, Glasgow. Mr. Lockhart distinguished himself both at the Glasgow University and at Balliol College, Oxford.]

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muca I cannot, cannot tell."

'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter,— "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water. To me did Muca give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget, That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well,

Oh! what will Muca think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere-
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well-
Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way;
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;

He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl un

loosed;

He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well,

My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

"He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same;
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame-
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muca, and cared not for his token.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! oh! luckless, luckless well!
For what to say to Muca, alas! I cannot tell.

"I'll tell the truth to Muca, and I hope he will believe-
That I have thought of him at morning, and thought of him at

eve;

That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,

His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well."

TO A SEA-GULL.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

[Gerald Griffin was born at Limerick, Dec. 12, 1803. Before he was one aud-twenty he came to London and obtained employment in reporting for the daily papers and contributing to the magazines. The "Munster Festivals," "Suil Dhuv, the Coiner," "The Collegians," &c. &c., made him a reputation which was still increasing when, it is said, in consequence of one of his sisters taking the veil, his devotional feelings were awakened, and he retreated from the world to join the Society of Christian Brothers, devoting himself to works of morality and education. He died of a fever in 1840.]

WHITE bird of the tempest! O beautiful thing,
With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing,
Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high,
Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky;
Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form,

Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm;
Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn,
Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn;
Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome,
Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam;
Now silently poised o'er the war of the main,
Like the Spirit of Charity brooding o'er pain;
Now gliding with pinion all silently furled,
Like an Angel descending to comfort the world!
Thou seem'st to my spirit, as upward I gaze,
And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays,

Now lost in the storm-driven vapours, that fly
Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky,
Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith,
'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death!
Rise! beautiful emblem of purity, rise,

On the sweet winds of Heaven, to thine own brilliant skies;
Still higher! still higher! till, lost to our sight,

Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light;

And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee,

Must long for that moment-the joyous and free-
When the soul, disembodied from Nature, shall spring
Unfettered, at once to her Maker and King;

When the bright day of service and suffering past,
Shapes, fairer than thine, shall shine round her at last,
While, the standard of battle triumphantly furled,
She smiles like a victor serene on the world!

EVELYN HOPE.

ROBERT BROWNING.

[Mr. Browning was born at Camberwell in 1812, and educated at the London University. His "Paracelsus" was published in 1836, but did not take with the public; it was followed by "Pippa Passes," which found more favour. In 1837 his tragedy of "Strafford" was produced, "Sardello" followed; then "The Blot on the Scutcheon," brought out at Drury Lane (1843). His works are now published by Messrs. Chapman and Hall, and are receiving the attention that they all along deserved. He married Miss Barrett the poetess, who died in 1861.]

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead

Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think—
The shutters are shut, no light may pass,
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name-
It was not her time to love; beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir—
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew

And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside ?

No, indeed, for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love,-
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few—
Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come,-at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red-
And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes. Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed meAnd I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue ? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could hold→→

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep,

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

(By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)

THE HIGH TIDE.

(ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571.)

JEAN INGELOW.

[Miss Jean Ingelow is a popular living poetess, whose works have now reached a ninth edition. She is a worthy follower of Mrs. E. B. Browning, on whom she appears to have founded her style, and writes very conscientiously; her subjects being very well chosen, and her thoughts original.]

THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three;
"Pull if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he:
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Play all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe The Brides of Enderby.'

Men say it was a stolen tyde

The Lord that sent it, He knows all
But in myne ears doth still abide

;

The message that the bells let fall:
And there was nought of strange, beside
The flights of mews and peewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

Floweth, floweth,

From the meads where melick groweth
Faintly came her milking song-

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
"For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;