,
Which Heaven hath form'd in love,
Tho' ravaged by death's icy hand,
Shall bloom again above!

TAKE THE HARP.

TO KATE.

'Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it
remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the "loves and
joys, the rural scenes and pleasures," the beauty and grandeur of
the place.

Take the harp, nor longer leave it
Sighing on the willow tree;
Pass thy gentle fingers o'er it,
And awake its melody;
The streams tho' icy chains may bind them,
Still will murmur back thy trill,
And the roses wild, though blasted,
On thy cheeks are blooming still.

Then touch the harp, till its wild numbers
The lone groves and valleys fill;
And tho' winter's frosts have sear'd them,
Thou canst dream they're beauteous still--
Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure,
And wild flowers above them rise;
What tho' chilly blasts have strewn them,
Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs!

Take the harp, nor on it dirges
Longer let Eolus play;
Touch it, and those notes of sadness
Change to joyous rhapsody!
And tho' the grape, the gift of Autumn,
Has been prest to crown the bowl--
Still in thy tresses shine its clusters,
While down thy snowy neck they roll.

Take the harp, and wake its numbers
To thy sister planet's praise,
As up the eastern sky she blazes,
Followed by the morning rays;
Queen of starry heaven beaming,
From her azure realm afar;
So thou dost shine midst beauty's daughters,
Love's bright and glorious morning star.

DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E.
McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss
McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing.

I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale Decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away.

--Moore.

And thou art dead,
The gifted, the beautiful,
Thy spirit's fled!
Thou, the fairest 'mong ten thousand, art no more!
Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb--
He hath touched thee--thou hast left us in thy bloom!
How oft amid the virgin throng,
I've seen thee, fairest, dance along;
And thine eyes, so brightly dark,
Gleaming like the diamond's spark;
But now how dim
Those orbs are left--
By Death bereft
Of thei