ife's sweet thrill,
'Tis only more than death.

Her dark, dark hair, reposing there,
Upon her pillow's snow,
And sweeping down her cheek's faint brown,
And bosom's spotless glow.

She wakes at last, her sleep has past,
Her eyes on me are thrown;
My sleeping love--my heavenly dove--
Has been in realms unknown.

DWELLING IN HEAVEN.

They do not--nay, they cannot die;
They go to dwell in Heaven;
Where God a free and full supply
Of purest joys hath given.

They do not--nay, they cannot die:
Because we see them not
Do objects cease--oh! brothers! why
This lesson now forgot?

They die not--nay, they cannot die:
In joy's serene, calm air,
Their cheek yet wears its roseate dye
Their smiles are yet as fair.

Their tones yet breathe as sweet a strain,
Their hearts are still as true,
And still their wonted love retain,
My friend, for me and you.

Oh no! they do not, cannot die,
They live far up in Heaven,
Beyond where flame yon portals high,
At still and silent even.

They dwell--they dwell eternally,
Where roll no winds--no storm,
And, if we seek them, we shall see,
Each bright and happy form.

THE FACE I SEE IN DREAMS.

Strangely sweet, and softly clear,
With pure and starry beams,
Reposing there, and moving here;
The face I see in dreams.

Oh! lovely is that wild, sweet face,
Which thus and ever gleams,
And smiles, with a seraphic grace,
Upon my heart's deep streams.

Oft at pale midnight's holy calm,
Beside imagined streams,
I recognize the soothing balm,
The face I see in dreams.

And, even at noon's wideseeing glare,
When earth, with clamor teems,
That face appears, as strangely fair,
That face I see in dreams.

The sum of universal charms,
The sun of beauty-beams,
Appear to deck that form of forms,
And face I see in dreams.

TO ELOQUENCE.

Ah Eloquence! thou God-like power;
That swayest the human heart,
We still must call thee, rarest dower,
In the high gift of Art;
And still thou shalt be styled a queen,
To brighten earth's grief-shaded green.

When thou dost falter sorrow's tale,
With trembling accents low,
The plaintive breezes of the vale,
With mingled pathos, flow;
The melting eye is bathed in tears,
And grief, in every face, appears.

When thou dost stand in mortal's view,
And breathe thy thoughts of flame,
The conscious soul, conceives them, too,
And breathes and burns the sa