NONE REMEMBER THEE. Like a winter bud that too soon hath burst, Save me! None remember thee! they could spy The gifts of genius were not thine, Save me! None remember thee now thou 'rt gone! Fain would I murmur thy name, and tell Save me! Hon. Mrs. Norton. THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee, THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD She had each folded flower in sight- One midst the forests of the West, Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, One sleeps where southern vines are drest He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band. And, parted thus, they rest-who played Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth, Alas for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh earth! Mrs. Hemans. It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high; And I had almost scorn'd the voice that told me thou must die. I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free, And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee. Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, TO WILLIAM. And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, Thanks for that memory to thee, my lovely little boy, That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain destroy. I listen'd, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness!-alas! how could it be, Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know? As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon. I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd; but, ere that day was spent, I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, And shudder'd as I cast a look upon thy fainting head; The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled. Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death made known that hope was vain, I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again;- I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be press'd, |