Leaving a scabbard in the hand of Vere,

And sword in his.

He had forgotten.

Cried to his God for

Vere shrieked in agony :

Huntley groaned but once-
mercy on his soul,

And lost his footing. Down amid the rocks
He fell — and fell again, and all was o'er.

When Vere descended by the usual path
And found his friend, the breath of life had fled;
The skull was fractured, but his face unhurt,
Seemed as he slumbered, while his stiff cold hand
Still held the fatal sword-stick in its grasp.

They brought the body to the Cabaret,
And on the third day laid him in his grave.
I thought, at times, two other deaths would fill
The awful measure of this tragedy.

That Vere's remorse, contrition, and despair,
At his unhappy, but most innocent act,

Would end his days. Yet though his grief was great,

'Twas nothing to the misery I saw

When Huntley's mother, young and beautiful,
Although her son was twenty years of age,
Hastened from London to behold the grave

Where they had lain her darling. Let me close
This sad recital:— language fails to tell
The holy madness of a grief like hers.

་

THE ASTRONOMER.

UPON thy lofty tower,

O lonely sage,
Reading at midnight hour

Heaven's awful page.

Thine art can poise the sun

In balance true,

And countless worlds that run

Beyond our view.

Thou scannest with clear eyes

The azure cope;

To thee the galaxies

Their secrets ope;

Thou know'st the track sublime

But yet thou canst not guess,
With all thy skill,

What seas of happiness
My bosom fill.

Thou canst not track the woe,

The hope, the faith,

That prompt the ebb and flow
Of my poor breath.

Outspeeding with thy thought
The solar ray,

Thou canst not, knowledge-fraught,

Discern my way.

My love its depth and height,

Thou canst not sound; Nor of my guilt's dark night

Pierce the profound.

O student of the sky,

My pride departs; Worlds undiscover'd lie

In both our hearts.

THE LOST DAY.

FAREWELL, O day misspent!
Thy fleeting hours were lent
In vain to my endeavor.
In shade and sun
Thy race is run

For ever! oh, for ever!
The leaf drops from the tree,
The sand falls in the glass,
And to the dread Eternity
The dying minutes pass.

It was not till thine end

I knew thou wert my friend.

But now, thy worth recalling,
My grief is strong-

I did thee wrong,

And scorn'd thy treasures falling.

But sorrow comes too late;

Another day is born.

Pass, minutes, pass; may better fate

Attend to-morrow morn.

Oh birth, oh death of Time!
Oh mystery sublime !
Ever the rippling ocean
Brings forth the wave

To smile or rave,

And die of its own motion. A little wave to strike

The sad responsive shore, And be succeeded by its like Ever and evermore.

A change from same to same
A quenched, yet burning flame-
A new birth, born of dying –
A transient ray,
A speck of day,

Approaching, and yet flying — Pass to Eternity.

O day, that came in vain ! A new wave surges on the sea — The world grows young again.

Come in, To-DAY, come in!
I have confess'd my sin

To thee, young promise-bearer!

New Lord of Earth!

I hail thy birth

The crown awaits the wearer.

Child of the ages past!

Sire of a mightier line!

On the same deeps our lot is cast:

The world is thine—and mine!