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KIRKSTALL ABBEY REVISITED.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

The echoes of its vaults are eloquent!
The stones have voices, and the walls do live;
It is the house of Memory.-MATURIN.

LONG years have passed since last I strayed,
In boyhood, through thy roofless aisle,
And watched the mists of eve o'ershade
Day's latest, loveliest smile;

And saw the bright, broad, moving moon
Sail up the sapphire skies of June!

The air around was breathing balm;
The aspen scarcely seemed to sway;
And, as a sleeping infant calm

The river streamed away,-
Devious as Error, deep as Love,
And blue and bright as heaven above!

Steeped in a flood of glorious light,—
Type of that hour of deep repose,-
In wan, wild beauty on my sight,
Thy time-worn tower arose.-
Brightening above the wreck of years,
Like FAITH amid a world of fears!

I climed its dark and dizzy stair,
And gained its ivy-mantled brow;
But broken-ruined-who may dare
Ascend that pathway now?

Life was an upward journey then ;-
When shall my spirit mount again?

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KIRKSTALL ABBEY REVISITED.

The steps in youth I loved to tread,
Have sunk beneath the foot of Time;
Like them, the daring hopes that led

Me, once, to heights sublime,
Ambition's dazzling dreams, are o'er,
And I may scale those heights no more!

And years have fled, and now I stand
Once more by thy deserted fane,
Nerveless alike in heart and hand!
How changed by grief and pain,
Since last I loitered here, and deemed
Life was the fairy thing it seemed!

And gazing on thy crumbling walls,
What visions meet my mental eye!
For every stone of thine recalls

Some trace of years gone by,-
Some cherished bliss, too frail to last,
Some hope decayed, or passion past!

Ay, thoughts come thronging on my soul
Of sunny youth's delightful morn;
When free from sorrow's dark control,
By pining cares unworn-
Dreaming of Fame, and Fortune's smile,
I lingered in thy ruined aisle !

How many a wild and withering woe

Hath seared my trusting heart since then;
What clouds of blight, consuming slow
The springs that life sustain,-

Have o'er my world-vexed spirits past,
Sweet Kirkstall, since I saw thee last!

How bright is every scene beheld

In youth and hope's unclouded hours!
How darkly-youth and hope dispelled—
The loveliest prospect lours:

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KIRKSTALL ABBEY REVISITED.

Thou wert a splendid vision then ;-
When wilt thou seem so bright again?

Yet still thy turrets drink the light
Of summer evening's softest ray,
And ivy garlands, green and bright,
Still mantle thy decay;

And, calm and beauteous, as of old,
Thy wandering river glides in gold!

But life's gay morn of ecstasy,

That made thee seem so more than fair,The aspirations wild and high,

The soul to nobly dare,

Oh, where are they, stern ruin, say?—
Thou dost but echo-WHERE ARE THEY?

Farewell!-Be still to other hearts
What thou wert, long ago, to mine;
And when the blissful dream departs,
Do thou a beacon shine,

To guide the mourner through his tears,
To the blessed scenes of happier years.

Farewell!-I ask no richer boon,

Than that my parting hour may be
Bright as the evening skies of June!
Thus thus to fade like thee,
With heavenly FAITH'S Soul-cheering ray
To gild with glory my decay!

LYRE.

R

24

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

BY WILLIAM B. PEABODY.

AND this is death! how cold and still,
And yet, how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile,
And yet too beautiful for tears.
The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,
That never looked so fair as now,
When life and health were laughing there,
I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,
And that strong passion once rebel,
That need not, cannot be suppressed.

I wonder not that parents' eyes,
In gazing thus, grow cold and dim,
That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended with the funeral hymn;
The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies,
And heaven would scorn the frozen heart
That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet, why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose,
Those eyes shall never weep again.

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

For, think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod,
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower
Within the paradise of God.

One more I gaze-and swift and far
The clouds of death in sorrow fly,
I see thee, like a new-born star,

Move up thy pathway in the sky:
The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfading and divine.

Then let the burthened heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see

The mournful beauty of the dead;
Thrice happy-that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin;
And only breathed life's morning airs
Before its noonday storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet;
But no, that look is not the last,-

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,
Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word-farewell.

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