ture!--of all that racked and desolated the
breast of that young aspirant to the Holy of Life, what trace was
visible in the awful serenity of that impenetrable brow and unbreathing
lip? The sister gazed, and not a sound was heard amidst the crowd;
there was something terrible, yet softening, also, in the silence; and
when it broke, it broke sudden and abrupt--it broke, with a loud and
passionate cry--the vent of long-smothered despair.

'My brother! my brother!' cried the poor orphan, falling upon the couch;
'thou whom the worm on thy path feared not--what enemy couldst thou
provoke? Oh, is it in truth come to this? Awake! awake! We grew
together! Are we thus torn asunder? Thou art not dead--thou sleepest.
Awake! awake!'

The sound of her piercing voice aroused the sympathy of the mourners,
and they broke into loud and rude lament. This startled, this recalled
Ione; she looked up hastily and confusedly, as if for the first time
sensible of the presence of those around.

'Ah!' she murmured with a shiver, 'we are not then alone!' With that,
after a brief pause, she rose; and her pale and beautiful countenance
was again composed and rigid. With fond and trembling hands, she
unclosed the lids of the deceased; but when the dull glazed eye, no
longer beaming with love and life, met hers, she shrieked aloud, as if
she had seen a spectre. Once more recovering herself she kissed again
and again the lids, the lips, the brow; and with mechanic and
unconscious hand, received from the high priest of her brother's temple
the funeral torch.

The sudden burst of music, the sudden song of the mourners announced the
birth of the sanctifying flame.

HYMN TO THE WIND

I

On thy couch of cloud reclined,
Wake, O soft and sacred Wind!
Soft and sacred will we name thee,
Whosoe'er the sire that claim thee--
Whether old Auster's dusky child,
Or the loud son of Eurus wild;
Or his who o'er the darkling deeps,
From the bleak North, in tempest sweeps;
Still shalt thou seem as dear to us
As flowery-crowned Zephyrus,
When, through twilight's starry dew,
Trembling, he hastes his nymph to woo.

II

Lo! our silver censers swinging,
Perfumes o'er thy path are flinging--
Ne'er o'er Tempe's breathless valleys,
Ne'er o'er Cypria's cedarn alleys,
Or the Rose-isl