Like wind-harps in a gale."

She said no more, but lingered long
Upon that quiet spot,
With such a glory on her brow,
'T will never be forgot!

Next eve at nine, for prayers we met,
And missed her from her place;
We found her sleeping with the flowers,
But Death was on her face.

We buried her, as she had asked,
Just at the vesper chime;
The sunbeams seemed to stay their flight,
So holy was the time.

I've heard that when the rainbow fades
From parting clouds on high,
It leaves where smiled the radiant arch
A fragrance in the sky:

It may be fantasy, I know,
But round that hour of Death
I always found an aroma
On every zephyr's breath.

And this is why the twilight hour
Is holier far to me,
Than gorgeous burst of morning light,
Or moonbeams on the sea.

THE MANIAC.

A story is told in Spain, of a woman, who, by a sudden shock of
domestic calamity, became insane, and ever after looked up
incessantly to the sky.

O'er her infant's couch of death,
Bent a widowed mother low;
And the quick, convulsive breath
Marked the inward weight of woe.

Round the fair child's forehead clung
Golden tresses, damp and bright;
While Death's pinion o'er it hung,
And the parted lips grew white.

Reason left the mother's eye,
When the latest pang was o'er;
Then she raised her gaze on high,
Turned it earthward nevermore.

By the dark and silent tomb,
Where they laid the dead to rest;
By the empty cradle's gloom,
And the fireside once so blest;

In the lone and narrow cell,
Fettered by the clanking chain,
Where the maniac's piercing yell
Thrilled the heart with dread and pain;--

Upward still she fixed her gaze,
Tearless and bewildered too,
Speaking of the fearful night
Madness o'er the spirit threw;

Upward, upward,--till in love
Death removed the veil of Time,
Raised the broken heart above,
To the far-off healing clime.

Mortal! o'er the field of Life
Pressing with uncertain tread;
Mourning, in the torrent strife,
Blessings lost and pleasures fled;--

A sublimer faith was taught
By the maniac's frenzied eye,
Than Philoso