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308 LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

What will it profit her who would have slept
As deep and sweet without them?
Oh! how vain
With promised garlands for the sepulchre,
To think to cheer the soul, whose daily prayer
Is but for bread and peace!——whose trembling hopes
For immortality ask one green leaf
From off the healing trees that grow beside
The pure bright river of Eternal Life.

THE LAST PALE FLOWERS.

THE last pale flowers are drooping on the stems,
The last sear leaves fall fluttering from the tree,
The latest groups of Summer's flying gems
Are hymming forth a parting melody.

The winds are heavy-wing'd and linger by,
Whispering to every pale and sighing leaf;
The sunlight falls all dim and tremblingly,
Like love's fond farewell through the mist of grief.

There is a dreamy presence every where,
As id of spirits passing to and fro;
We almost hear their voices in the air,
And feel their balmy pinions touch the brow.

We feel as if a breath might put aside
The shadowy curtains of the spirit-land,
Revealing all the loved and glorified 
That death has taken from affection's band.

Wr call their names, and listen for the sound
Of their sweet voices' tender melodies;
We look almost expectantly around,
For those dear faces with the loving eyes.

LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 309

We feel them near us, and spread out the scroll
Of hearts whose feelings they were wont to share,
That they may read the constancy of soul
And all the high pure motives written there.

And then we weep, as if our check were press'd 
To friendship's holy unsuspecting heart,
Which understands our own. Oh, vision biest'
Alas, that such illusion should depart.

I oft have pray'd that death may come to me
In such a spiritual autumn day;
For surely it would be no agony
With all the beautiful to pass away.

COME TO THE WOODS.

COME to the woods in June,
'T is happiness to rove
When Nature's lyres are all in tune,
And life all full of love.
Come, when the morning light, 
Advancing from afar,
Veils, with a glory soft and bright,
Her smiling favourite star.
While from the dewy dells,
And every wild-wood bower,
A thousand little feather's bells
Ring out the matin hour.

Come, when the sun is high,
And earth all full in bloom,
When every passing summer sigh
Is languid with perfume;
When by the mountain-brook
The watchful red-deer lies;