Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
Where the skies are ever clear;

The corn-month's golden hours will come, But they shall not find thee here.

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!

Under our whispering pine;

Music shall midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, Telling of winter gone,

Hath such sweet falls-yet caught we still A farewell in its tone.

But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be
Where farewell sounds are o'er ;
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see

No fear of parting more.

The mossy grave thy tears have wet,
And the wind's wild moanings by,
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,
Midst flowers-not such as die.

The shadow from thy brow shall melt,

The sorrow from thy strain,

But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, Our hearts shall thirst in vain.

Dim will our cabin be, and lone,

When thou, its light, art fled;
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown
Unto the happy dead.

And we will follow thee, our guide!
And join that shining band;

Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side

Go to the better land!"

The song had ceas'd-the listeners caught no breath,

That lovely sleep had melted into death.

THE INDIAN CITY.*

What deep wounds ever clos'd without a scar?
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it.

I.

Childe Harold.

ROYAL in splendour went down the day

On the plain where an Indian city lay,

With its crown of domes o'er the forest high,

Red as if fused in the burning sky,

And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made A bright stream's way thro' each long arcade,

Till the pillar'd vaults of the Banian stood,
Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood,

*From a tale in Forbes' Oriental Memoirs.

And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold, As a tree midst the genii-gardens old,

And the cypress lifted a blazing spire,

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire.

Many a white pagoda's gleam

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream,

Broken alone by the lotus-flowers,

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours,

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed

Its glory forth on their crystal bed.

Many a graceful Hindoo maid,

With the water-vase from the palmy shade,
Came gliding light as the desert's roe,
Down marble steps to the tanks below;'
And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard,
As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'd;
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air,
Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer.