Perchance, upon a desert shore,

The sands shall heap my stoneless grave; Perchance, upon a desert shore,

The thunder of the ocean wave;

The wind, whose voice its breakers mock,
Bear my last sigh unheard away--
The shadow of the mountain rock
Forbid a flower to deck my clay.

And yet, since none will smile the less
When I am gone-the ocean foam,
The column of the wilderness,

'The sea-rock, were my fitting tomb,
My life yon orb, on which I gaze,
My image well-lone, dim, and far:
And death to me will be but as

The setting of that nameless star!

SHE SLEEPS.

BY MARY EMILY JACKSON.

SHE sleeps! no light is on her brow,

No griefs torment her heart's deep aching;

No vision haunts her slumbers now

She sleeps the sleep that knows no waking.

She sleeps! and worms must revel deep
Upon that brow, made pale by sorrow.
She sleeps! and dreamless is that sleep
Which knows no coming of the morrow.

She sleeps! no smile illumes her eye,

Now closed forever from its weeping, Her cheeks have lost their wonted dyeShe wakes no more from death's cold sleeping. She sleeps! and earth must close around Her narrow bed, till earth be riven, And the last trump of God shall sound, To call her slumbering dust to Heaven.

THE SNOW STORM.

BY SEBA SMITH.

THE cold wind swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And mid the cheerless hours of night
A mother wandered with her child.
As through the drifted snows she pressed,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,
And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew the drifts of snow--

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. "O God!" she cried, in accents wild,

"If I must perish, save my child."

She stript her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm;
As round the child she wrapped the vest,
She smiled to think that it was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil-
The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale-
He moved the robe from off the child;
The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

THE BLISS OF HOME.

BY T. H. SHREEVE.

MINE be the joy which gleams around
The hearth where pure affections dwell-
Where love enrobed in smiles is found,
And wraps the spirit with its spell.
I would not seek excitement's whirl,
Where Pleasure wears her tinsel crown,
And Passion's billows upward curl,
'Neath Hatred's darkly gathering frown.

The dearest boon from Heaven above, Is bliss which brightly hallows home; "Tis sunlight to the world of love,

And life's pure wine without its foam. There is a sympathy of heart

Which consecrates the social shrineRobs grief of gloom, and doth impart A joy to gladness all divine.

It glances from the kindling eye
Which o'er Affliction sleepless tends;
It gives deep pathos to the sigh
Which anguish from the bosom rends;
It plays around the smiling lip,

When love bestows the greeting kiss, And sparkles in each cup we sip

Round the domestic board of bliss!

Let others seek in wealth or fame,

A splendid path whereon to treadI'd rather wear a lowlier name,

With love's enchantments round it shed. Fame's but a light to gild the grave,

And wealth can never calm the breast; But LovE, a halcyon on Life's wave, Hath power to soothe its strifes to rest.

OH, SAY NOT WE SOON CAN FORGET.

BY T. H. CUSHMAN.

Он, say not we soon can forget

The hearts that were fondly our own,

Oh, say not the tear of regret

Is woman's, dear woman's alone!

We part, with a smile in our eyes,

Our farewells may lightly be sighed,

Yet dreary the tones of the skies,

While forms, though not feelings, divide.

We look then on days that are past,

As spectres, deceiving our gaze;

We feel like a mariner cast

Where echo in mockery plays.