O'er his cradle with blessing sweet.

For ever be my friend and guide

Even to the threshold of the grave!

O'er me hover with gentlest dreams,

And shroud me with thy shielding wings!

Banish far all doubt and sorrow,

Possess the mind with fond deceit,

A glory shed o'er my far life,

And scatter wide its darkest gloom!

Thus peace shall bless my parting hour,

The genius of Death shall come,

And whisper, knocking at the door,

"The dwelling of the shades awaits thee!"

E'en so, on winter eve sweet sleep

Frequents with joy the home of peace,

With lotos crowned, and lowly bent

On restful staff of languid ease

THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH.

The world he fled,

Of love and pleasure once the nursling,

And is as one who lies in sleep.

Or cold of nameless tomb, forgot.

Time was, he loved our village games,

When as the girls beneath the shade

Of trees would loot the meadow free;-

But now in village song and dance

No more is heard his greeting light.

His elders had with envy marked

His easy gait and bearing gay,

And, smiling sadly, 'mongst themselves

Oft shook their hoary heads, and said:

"We too once loved the choral dance,

And shone as wits and jesters keen:

But wait: the years will make their round.