And look around, in deep delight,
On all the pure still smiles of night.
As they sit in beauty on the shore,
The shepherd feels he has seen before
The quiet of their heavenly eyes:

""Tis the orphans come back from paradise,

Edith and Nora! They now return,

When this woe-worn land hath ceased to mourn.

We thought them dead, but at Heaven's command,

For years they have lived in Fairy land,

And they glide back by night to their little cot,
O absent long, but by none forgot!"

The boat with its snow-white sail is gone,

And the creatures it brought to shore are flown;
Still the crowd of water-lilies shake,

And a long bright line shines o'er the lake,
But nought else tells that a bark was near;
While the wildered shepherd seems to hear
A wild hymn wandering through the wood,
Till it dies up the mountain solitude;
And a dreamy thought, as the sounds depart,
Of Edith and Nora comes o'er his heart.

At morning's first pure silent glow,
A band of simple shepherds go

To the orphans' cot, and there they behold
The dove so bright, with its plumes of gold,
And the radiant lamb, that used to glide
So spirit-like by fair Edith's side.
Fair creatures! that no more were seen
On the sunny thatch or the flowery green,
Since the lovely sisters had flown away,
And left their cottage to decay!
Back to this world returned again,
They seem in sadness and in pain,

And coo and bleat is like the breath
Of sorrow mourning over death.

Lo smiling on their rushy bed,

Lie Edith and Nora-embraced-and dead!

A gentle frost has closed their eyes,

And hushed-just hushed-their balmy sighs.
Over their lips, yet rosy red,

A faint, pale, cold decay is shed;

A dimness hangs o'er their golden hair,
That sadly tells no life is there;
There beats no heart, no current flows
In bosoms sunk in such repose;
Limbs may not that chill quiet have,
Unless laid ready for the grave.
Silence lies there from face to feet,

And the bed she loves best is a winding-sheet.

Let the coffin sink down soft and slowly,
And calm be the burial of the holy !
One long look in that mournful cell-
Let the green turf heave-and then, farewell!
No need of tears! in this churchyard shade
Oft had the happy orphans played

Above these quiet graves! and well they lie
After a calm bright life of purity,

Beneath the flowers that once sprang to meet
The motion of their now still feet!
The mourners are leaving the buried clay
To the holy hush of the Sabbath-day,
When a lamb comes sadly bleating by,
And a dove soft wavering through the sky,
And both lie down without a sound,
In beauty on the funeral mound!
What may these lovely creatures be?
-Two sisters who died in infancy,
And thus had those they loved attended,
And been by those they loved befriended!
Whate'er-fair creatures! might be their birth,
Never more were they seen on earth;
But to young and old belief was given

That with Edith and Nora they went to heaven.

LINES WRITTEN IN A BURIAL-GROUND

ON THE NORTHERN COAST OF THE HIGHLANDS.

How mournfully this burial-ground
Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound,
Who rolls his bright and sunny waves
All round these deaf and silent graves!
The cold wan light that glimmers here,
The sickly wild-flowers may not cheer;
If here, with solitary hum,

The wandering mountain-bee doth come,
'Mid the pale blossoms short his stay,
To brighter leaves he booms away.
The Sea-bird, with a wailing sound,
Alighteth softly on a mound,
And, like an image, sitting there
For hours amid the doleful air,
Seemeth to tell of some dim union,
Some wild and mystical communion,
Connecting with his parent sea
This lonesome, stoneless cemetery..

This may not be the burial-place
Of some extinguished kingly race,
Whose name on earth no longer known
Hath mouldered with the mouldering stone.

That nearest grave, yet brown with mould,
Seems but one summer-twilight old;
Both late and frequent hath the bier

Been on its mournful visit here,
And yon green spot of sunny rest
Is waiting for its destined guest.

I see no little kirk-no bell

On Sabbath tinkleth through this dell.

How beautiful those graves and fair,
That, lying round the house of prayer,
Sleep in the shadow of its grace!
But death has chosen this rueful place
For his own undivided reign!
And nothing tells that e'er again
The sleepers will forsake their bed—
Now, and for everlasting dead,
For Hope with Memory seems fled !

Wild-screaming Bird! unto the sea
Winging thy flight reluctantly,
Slow-floating o'er these grassy tombs
So ghost-like, with thy snow-white plumes,
At once from thy wild shriek I know
What means this place so steeped in woe!
Here, they who perished on the deep
Enjoy at last unrocking sleep,

For Ocean, from his wrathful breast,
Flung them into this haven of rest,
Where shroudless, coffinless they lie,-
'Tis the shipwrecked seaman's cemetery.

Here seamen old, with grizzled locks,
Shipwrecked before on desert rocks,
And by some wandering vessel taken
From sorrows that seem God-forsaken,
Home-bound, here have met the blast
That wrecked them on Death's shore at last!
Old friendless men, who had no tears
To shed, nor any place for fears
In hearts by misery fortified,-
And, without terror, sternly died.
Here, many a creature, moving bright
And glorious in full manhood's might,
Who dared with an untroubled eye
The tempest brooding in the sky,
And loved to hear that music rave,
And danced above the mountain-wave,
Hath quaked on this terrific strand,-
All flung like sea-weeds to the land;
A whole crew lying side by side,
Death-dashed at once in all their pride.
And here, the bright-haired, fair-faced boy,
Who took with him all earthly joy

From one who weeps both night and day, For her sweet son borne far away, Escaped at last the cruel deep,

In all his beauty lies asleep;

While she would yield all hopes of grace For one kiss of his pale, cold face!

O I could wail in lonely fear,
For many a woeful ghost sits here,
All weeping with their fixèd eyes!
And what a dismal sound of sighs
Is mingling with the gentle roar
Of small waves breaking on the shore;
While ocean seems to sport and play
In mockery of its wretched prey!
And lo! a white-winged vessel sails
In sunshine, gathering all the gales
Fast-freshening from yon isle of pines,
That o'er the clear sea waves and shines.
I turn me to the ghostly crowd,

All smeared with dust, without a shroud,
And silent every blue-swollen lip!
Then gazing on the sunny ship,
And listening to the gladsome cheers
Of all her thoughtless mariners,
I seem to hear in every breath
The hollow under-tones of Death,
Who, all unheard by those who sing,
Keeps tune with low wild murmuring,
And points with his lean bony hand
To the pale ghosts sitting on this strand,
Then dives beneath the rushing prow,
Till on some moonless night of woe
He drives her shivering from the steep
Down-down a thousand fathoms deep.