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'TIS A LOWLY GRAVE.

BY W. G. SIMMS.

'Tis a lowly grave but it suits her best,
Since it breathes of fragrance and speaks of rest,
And meet for her is its calm repose,
Whose life was so stormy and sad to its close.

'Tis a shady dell where they laid her form,
And the hills gather round it to break the storm,
While above her head the bending trees
Arrest the wing of each ruder breeze.

A trickling stream, as it winds below,
Has a music of peace in its quiet flow,
And the buds that are ever in bloom above,
Tell of some ministering spirit's love.

It is sweet to think, that when life is o’er,
And life's fevered pulses shall fret no more,
There still shall be one, with a fond regret,
Who will not forsake, and who cannot forget :

One kindlier heart, all untainted by earth,
That has kept the fresh bloom from its bud and its birth,
Whose tears for the sorrows of youth shall be shed,
And whose prayer shall still rise for the early dead.

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They say, that afar in the land of the west,
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,
'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,
A fair lake, unruffled and sparkling, is spread;
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,
In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depressed,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;
There the bright eye of nature in mild glory hovers :
'Tis the land of the sunbeam, the green isle of lovers.

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss.
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss :
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover,
On high, with their shade, the green isle of the lover.

But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire, When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire, Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, Whose law is their will and whose life is their smile : From beauty, there, valor and strength are not rovers, And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no more ;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view;
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue :
0, who, in this vain world of wo, shall discover
The home undisturbed, the green isle of the lover!

DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

BY W.

c. BRYANT.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown

and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves

lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the

jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the

gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately

sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of

ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold Novem

ber rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer

glow;

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