s white and saintly.

Ah! well I know this mournful eve
So like an evening olden;
With many a goodly harvest sheaf
The upland fields were golden;
The lily moon in bridal white
Leaned o'er the sea, her lover,
And stars with beauty filled the Night--
The wind sang in the clover.

The halls were bright with revelry,
The beakers red with wassail;
And music's grandest symphony
Rung thro' the ancient castle;
And she, the brightest of the throng,
With wedding-veil and roses,
Seemed like the beauty of a song
Between the organ's pauses.

My memory paints her sweetly meek,
With her long sunny tresses,
And how the blushes on her cheek
Kissed back their warm caresses;
But like an angry cloud that cleaves
Down thro' the mists of glory,
I see the flowers a pale hand weaves
Around a forehead gory.

The road was lone that lay between
His, and her father's castle,
And many a stirrup-cup, I ween,
Quaffed he of generous wassail.
My soul drank in a larger draught
From the burning well of hate,
The hand that sped the murderous shaft
Was guided by my fate.

Red shadows lay upon the sward
That night, instead of golden--
And long the bride's maids wait the lord
In the bridal-chamber olden;
Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers
That bound the milk-white forehead--
The star has sunk, the red moon glowers
Down slopes of blackness horrid.

IN MEMORIAM.

JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS.

He giveth His beloved sleep.

--Psalms 127:2

From heaven's blue walls the splendid light
Of signal-stars gleams far and bright
Down the abyssmal deeps of night.

Against the dim, dilating skies
Orion's radiant mysteries
Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise--

I see--with flashing sword in hand,
With eyes sublime, and forehead grand--
The conquering constellation stand!

And on one purple tower the moon
Hangs her white lamp--the night wind's rune
Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon.

Far down the dimly shining bay
The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray,
Wraps all the golden ships away--

The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow
Of ghostly moon and vapor go,
Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!

With mournful thought I sit alone--
My heart is heavy as a stone,
And hath no utterance but a moan.

I think of him, who, being blest,
With pale hands crossed on silent breast,
Taketh his long unending rest;

While lone winds chant a funeral stave,
And pal