THE VESPER HOUR.

THE VESPER HOUR! whose balmy pow'r brings to the weary breast

An earnest of eternal peace, of pure and holy rest; Oh, solemn time! what thoughts sublime are with thy silence link'd,

Of future joy, that seem by day in mortal hearts extinct.

THE VESPER HOUR! how many hearts, beneath thine influence still'd,

Have hush'd the passions and the pains that in their bosoms thrill'd;

And hearts that with the world's vain cares are close and dearly twined,

For a brief space beneath thy power, its influence have resigned.

THE VESPER HOUR! when sorrows lour, when pain and mental grief

Have robbed the heart of ev'ry source of comfort and relief,

Thy holy calm brings peace and balm, and for a mo

ment woos

The weary soul to soothing hopes, to high and holier views.

THE VESPER HOUR! even conscious guilt thy soft'ning · influence owns-

Thou stillest for a time its pains, and hushest its low

moans;

And the man of sin, as mem'ry wakes, to his vanished childhood turns,

And for its well-remembered time with silent anguish yearns.

OH, Vesper HOUR! no other dow'r would the weary spirit claim

Than the feelings that thy coming brings might ever be the same;

And as thy dews thro' night diffuse strength to each herb and flow'r,

So may thy beauty bring the heart a like refreshing pow'r!

THE MARTYR QUEEN.

ELLE etoit de ce monde ou les plus belles choses,
Ont le pire destin

Et rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses

L'espace d'un matin.

Он, transient as a flower's breath, and beautiful brief,

Thy pathway through the earth was marked by anguish and by grief;

For thou wert of this sinful world, where the fairest and the best

In vain may seek amid its strife to be a welcome guest.

Yet life to thee at first appeared a grand and glorious

scene

The daughter of an Emperor, and destined for a Queen;

As a star thou shinedst placidly, dispensing o'er the land

The radiant light that goodness sheds, when leagued with high command.

H

And hearts were thine, whose fervent love like adoration seemed

And joy was where thy countenance with kindly feel

ing beamed;

Throughout the gay and gallant land of merry-hearted France,

None looked on thee with hatred's eye, or insult's lighter glance.

But with the fearful fury of the whirlwind's awful blast, The spirit of rebellion rose; and like the light'ning

past,

Involving all in ruin's grave-and with the self-same stroke

Beneath its glance the lily fell, and the forest's stately oak.

And vain were worth and beauty then-the darkness of that night

Had dimmed the star's undying ray, and the moon's serener light;

And on thy soul, devoted Queen! oh darkly fell the gloom

For rude contempt awaited thee, and insult to the tomb.

They led her to the scaffold-where, amid their cruel

With horrid joy they waited for her anguish and her

tears;

They deemed before a scene like this, would quail her woman's heart

But Queen-like in her birth and woe, Queen-like she did depart !

Upon her brow there was a trace of mild unspeaking grief,

But still there seemed a conscious hope such sorrow would be brief:

And fearless in that hour of death, she gazed upon

the scene

With the calmness and the majesty of France's Martyr Queen!