THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side.

They fill'd one house with gleeTheir graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night,
O'er each fair sleeping brow,

She had each folded flower in sight
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the west
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar's shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep!
Ile was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd

Above the noble slain;

Ile wrapt his colors round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one - o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd, She faded 'midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band.

And parted thus, they rest who play'd
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee!

POETRY.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

And look'd from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

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'My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

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HEMAND.

Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer;
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad,
To know though kept a captive here,

I am not mad! I am not mad!

He smiles in scorn and turns the key!
Ile quits the grate, I knelt in vain!
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see

'Tis gone and all is gloom again.
Cold, bitter cold! no warmth! no light\
Life, all thy comforts once I had:
Yet, here I'm chain'd, this freezing night,
Altho' not mad! no, no! not mad!

"Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,
What I, the child of rank and wealth;
Am I the wretch that clanks this chain,
Deprived of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart; how burns my head!
But 'tis not mad! no! 'tis not mad!

Hast thou, my child, forgot ere this

A mother's face, a mother's tongue;

She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,

Nor round her neck how fast you clung,

Nor how with me you sued to stay,

Nor how that suit your sire denied,

Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away, They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!

None ever bore a lovelier child!

And art thou now for ever gone,