SCENE.

Press close your lips, And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here! Mark ye not how across that eye so clear, Steals his eclipse?

A moment more, And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease, Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release, And all be o'er!

Hush! Seal ye up Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken Grief's bitter cup.

Ye know the dead Are they who rest secure from care and strife,-- That they who walk the thornywayoflife, Have tears to shed.

Ye know her pray'r, Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,-- Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast, Could peace dwell there?

A tale soon told, Is of her life the story; she had loved, And he who won her heart to love, had proved Heartless and cold.

Lay her to rest, Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew; For these should shine and fall where lies so true And fond a breast!

A full release From every pang is given to the dead,-- So on the stone ye place above her head, Write only "Peace."*When Spring comes back, With music on her lips,--joy in her eye,-- Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,-- Flow'rs in her track--Then come ye here, And musing from the busy world apart, Drop on the turf that wraps her moulderingheart, Sweet Pity's tear.

* The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was written in that one word, "Peace." It seemed like the last sigh of a departing spirit, over the clay which it was about to abandon for ever.