I know not if there be a sense

More sweet, than to impart
Health to the haunts of pestilence,
Balm to the sufferer's smart,
And freedom to captivity!

The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh,
Might grace an angel's heart;

And e'en when sickness damped thy brow,
Such bliss was thine, and such wert thou!

Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands,
Amid the general doom,

Long stood'st thou as the traveller stands,
Where breathes the lone simoom;
One minute, beautiful as brief,

Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf,
Another-all is gloom;

He looks-the green, the blossomed bough
Is blasted into ashes now !

But deadlier than the simoom burns

The fire of Pestilence;

His shadow into darkness turns

The passing of events:

Where points his finger,—lowers the storm;

Where his eye fixes, feeds the worm

On people and on prince!

Where treads his step-there glory lies;

Where breathes his breath,—there beauty dies!

And to the beautiful and young

Thy latest cares were given;

How spake thy kind and pitying tongue

The messages of heaven!

Soothing her grief who, fair and frail,

Waned paler yet, and yet more pale,
Like lily-flowers at even:

Smit by the livid Plague, which cast
O'er thee his shadow as he passed!

As danger deeper grew and dark,

Her hopes could conscience bring;
And faith, and mind's immortal spark,
Grew hourly brightening;

One pang at parting-'t was the last-
Joy for the future! -for the past —
But thou art on the wing

To track the source from whence it came,
And mingle with thy parent flame!

The nodding hearse, the sable plume,
Those attributes of pride,

The artificial grief or gloom

Are pageants which but hide

Hearts, from the weight of anguish free: But there were many wept for thee

Who wept for none beside,

And felt, thus left alone below,
The full desertedness of woe!

And many mourned that thou should'st lie
Where Dnieper rolls and raves,

Glad from barbaric realms to fly,
And blend with Pontic waves;
A desert bleak—a barren shore,
Where Mercy never trod before-

A land whose sons were slaves;
Crouching, and fettered to the soil
By feudal chains and thankless toil!

But oft, methinks, in future years,
To raise exalted thought,
And soften sternest eyes to tears,
Shall be thy glorious lot!
And oft the rugged Muscovite,—
As spring prepares the pious rite,-
Shall tread the holy spot,

And see her offered roses showered
Upon the grave of gentle HOWARD!

Those roses on their languid stalk
Will fade ere fades the day,
Winter may wither in his walk
The myrtle and the bay,

Which, mingled with the laurel's stem,
Her hands may plant; but not with them,
Shall memory pass away,

Or pity cease the heart to swell –

TO THEE there can be no FAREWELL!

THE BREEZE FROM THE SHORE.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Joy is upon the lonely seas

When Indian forests pour

Forth to the billow and the breeze
Their odours from the shore ;
Joy, when the soft air's fanning sight
Bears on the breath of Araby.

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell
A wanderer of the deep,

Where far away the jasmines dwell,
And where the myrrh-trees weep!

Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam,
Are tidings of the citron's home!

The sailor at the helm they meet,
And Hope his bosom stirs,
Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet

The fair earth's messengers,
That woo him, from the moaning main,

Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales
Of many a flowering glade,

And fount's bright gleam in island-vales
Of golden-fruited shade;

Across his lone ship's wake they bring
A vision and a glow of spring.

And, oh! ye masters of the lay,
Come not even thus your songs,
That meet us on life's weary way,
Amidst her toiling throngs?
Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.

Their power is from the brighter clime

That in our birth hath part,

Their tones are of the world, which time
Seres not within the heart;

They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

They call us, with a voice divine,
Back to our early love,—

Our vows of youth at many a shrine,
Whence far and fast we rove :

Welcome high thought, and holy strain,
That make us truth's and heaven's again!

Literary Souvenir.

A LYRICAL BALLAD.

AN almost coldness autumn sky,
Elastic freshness in the air,
And yet the breeze but lazily
Uplifts the gossamer,—

Uplifts that mazy roof, whereon
A thousand shuttles have been piled;
O'er blade and stalk, o'er clod and stone,
It spreads on every side.

Turn to the sun,—and it will shine,
A fairy web of tapestry

Lighted in one far-stretching line,

Just like a moonlight sea.

Look back,-e'en there, their trammels slight The spinners have as thickly spun ;

Yet they elude our prying sight,

Save when they meet the sun.

Strange work, ye tiny artisans,
Is this of yours, on dale and down!
The nat'ralist scarce understands
More of it than the clown.

Pardon that we your meshes sweep,
For yon old elms our steps invite,
Round which a troop of swallows keep
A restless, graceful flight.

It is my chimney's full-fledged brood,
With sooty head and corslet grey,
And here they ply, for insect food,
Their skill in falconry.