One winged minstrel's left to sing
O'er him who lies beneath-

The humming bee, that seeks in spring
Its honey from the heath,

It is the sole familiar sound

That ever rises there;

For silent is the haunted ground,
And silent is the air.

There never comes the merry bird,
There never bounds the deer;
But during night strange sounds are heard,
The day may never hear:

For there the shrouded Banshee stands,
Scarce seen amid the gloom,

And wrings her dim and shadowy hands,
And chants her song of doom.

Seven pillars, grey with time and moss,
On dark Sleive Monard meet;
They stand to tell a nation's loss-
A king is at their feet.

A lofty moat denotes the place
Where sleeps in slumber cold
The mighty of a mighty race-
The giant kings of old.

There Gollah sleeps-the golden band
About his head is bound;
His javelin in his red right hand,
His feet upon his hound.

And twice three golden rings are placed

Upon that hand of fear;

The smallest would go round the waist

Of any maiden here.

And plates of gold are on his breast;
And gold doth bind him round;

A king, he taketh kingly rest

Beneath that royal mound.

But wealth no more the mountain fills
As in the days of yore:

Gone are those days; the wave distils

Its liquid gold no more.

The days of yore—still let my harp
Their memories repeat-

The days when every sword was sharp,
And every song was sweet;
The warrior slumbers on the hill,
The stranger rules the plain;
Glory and gold are gone; but still
They live in song again.

THE SPIRIT OF THE FIRESIDE.

This is from a well-known book called Queechy, by Miss WETHERELL, an American authoress.

By the old hearthstone a spirit dwells,

The child of bygone years—

He lieth hid, the stone amid,

And liveth on smiles and tears.

But when the night is drawing on,
And the fire burns clear and bright,
He cometh out, and walketh about
In the pleasant grave twilight.

He goeth round on tiptoe soft
And scanneth close each face;
If one in the room be sunk in gloom,
By him he taketh his place.

And then with fingers cool and soft
(Their touch who does not know ?)

With water brought from the well of thought
That was dug long years ago,

He layeth his hand on the weary eyes;
They are closed and quiet now-
And he wipeth away the dust of the day
That hath settled on the brow.

And gently then he walketh away
And sits in the corner chair;

And the closed eyes swim-it seemeth to him
The form that once sat there.

And whisper'd words of comfort and love .
Fall sweet on the ear of sorrow-

"Why weepest thou ?-thou art troubled now, But there cometh a bright to-morrow.

We too have pass'd o'er life's rough stream,
In a frail and shatter'd boat;

But our pilot was sure, and we sail'd secure,
When we seem'd but scarce afloat.

Though toss'd by the rage of waves and wind,
The bark held together still;

One arm was strong,-it bore us along,
And has saved from every ill."

The Spirit returns to his dwelling-place,
And his words have been like balm;
The big tears start, but the fluttering heart
Is soothed, and soften'd, and calm.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

By LONGFELLOW.

THE night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above
A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquer'd will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possess'd.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O, fear not, in a world like this,
And thou shalt know, ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer, and be strong.

THE EMIGRANTS.

By FREILIGRATH, a modern German poet; translated by Mr. A. ROUSHERVILLE.

I CANNOT turn my look aside,

But ling'ring watch ye on the strand,

As to the sailor ye confide

Your wealth, your all, with busy hand.

Men, from your shoulders placing round
Bread-laden baskets on the earth;
The meal of German corn was ground,
And baked upon a German hearth.

And ye, adorn'd with braided hair,

Black Forest maidens, slender, brown,
How on the shallop's bench with care
Ye lay your jugs and pitchers down!

How oft have flown those pitchers o'er
With water from your native spring;
When silent is Missouri's shore,

Sweet dreams of home to you they'll bring.

The stone-encircled village-well,

Where ye to draw the water bent;
The hearth, where soft affections dwell,
The mantelpiece, its ornament.

Soon will they, in the distant west,
Adorn the log-hut's wooden side,
Soon to the red-skinn'd weary guest
Ye'll hand their clear refreshing tide.

The Cherokees will drink their flood,
Who in the chase exhausted roam;
No more, fill'd with the grape's red blood,
Nor hung with wreaths, ye'll bear them home.

Say! why seek ye a distant land?

The Neckar vale has wine and corn;
Dark pines in your Black Forest stand,
In Spessart sounds the Alpine horn.

How, when in distant woods, forlorn,
Ye for your native hills will pine,
For Deutschland's golden fields of corn,
And verdant hills of clust'ring vine.

How will the image of the past

Through all your dreams in brightness roll,

And, like some pious legend, cast

A veil of sadness o'er your soul!