When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought,
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?

When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime—
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread,
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?

When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody—

When ye
hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream—
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!

Kindly and gently, but as of one

For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone-
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found-

So let it be.

MRS. HEMANS,

FAREWELL."

AREWELL! if ever fondest prayer

For other's weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,

When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,

Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that shall not sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel:
I only know we loved in vain—
I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

BYRON.

FAREWELL.

AREWELL! I shall not be to thee
More than a passing thought;
But every time and place will be

With thy remembrance fraught!

Farewell! we have not often met.

We may not meet again;
But on my heart the seal is set

Love never sets in vain!
Fruitless as constancy may be,

No chance, no change, may turn from thee
One who has loved thee wildly well-
But whose first love-vow breathed-farewell!

MISS LANDON.

MEETING AGAIN.

YES, we shall meet again, my cherished friend;
Not in the beautiful autumnal bowers,

Where we have seen the waving corn-fields bend,
And twined bright garlands of the harvest flowers,
And watched the gleaners with their golden store-
There we shall meet no more.

Not in the well-remembered hall of mirth,

Where at the evening hour each heart rejoices, And friends and kindred crowd the social hearth, And the glad breathings of young happy voices Strains of sweet melody in concert pour

There we shall meet no more.

Not in the haunts of busy strife, which bind
Thy soaring spirit to base Mammon's toil;
Where the revealings of thy gifted mind
Exhaust their glories on a barren soil,
With few to praise, to wonder, or deplore-
There we shall meet no more.

Yet mourn not thus: in realms of changeless gladness,
Where friendship's ties are never crushed and broken,
We still may meet: Heaven, who beholds our sadness,
Hath to the trusting heart assurance spoken
Of that blest land, where, free from care and pain,
Fond friends unite again.