Unspoken tongues, perchance in praise or woe,

Were chronicled on tablets Time had swept ;
And deep were half their letters hid below

The thick, small dust of those they once bad wept.

No hand was here to wipe the dust away;

No reader of the writing traced beneath ;
No spirit sitting by its form of cla

No sigh nor sound from all the heaps of death,

One place alone had ceased to hold its prey;

A form had pressed it and was there no more ;
The garments of the grave beside it lay,

Where once they wrapped HIM on the rocky foor.

HE only with returning footsteps broke

The eternal calm with which the tomb was bound;
Among the sleeping dead alone HE woke

And blessed with outstretched hands the host around.

Well is it that such blessing hovers here,

To soothe each sad survivor of the throng
Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere,

And pour their woe the loaded air along.

They to the verge have followed what they love,

And on the insuperable threshold stand ;
With cherished names its speechless calm reprove,

And stretch in the abyss their ungrasped hand.

But vainly there they seek their soul's relief,

And of the obdurate Grave its prey implore;
Till death himself shall medicine their grief,

Closing their eyes by those they met before.

All that have died, the earth's whole race, repose

Where Death collects his treasures, heap on heap;
O’er each one's busy day the nightshades close ;

Its actors, sufferers, schools, kings, armies-sleep.

It would be difficult to frame a better wish for the writer and the woman, than that both may remain unchanged—that the shadow may still cast its deep and thoughtful vail over the poetry and the sunshine, and the blessing rest upon the life !

The exact reverse of Mrs. Clive may be found in Mrs. Acton Tindal, whose verse, so free, so buoyant, so firm, and so graceful, derives most of its charm from its resemblance to the sweet and lovely creature by whom it was written. There is a sparkling vividness in her style, which has the life and color of painting. The very choice of her subjects is picturesque. With an extent and variety of reading, remarkable even now in one of the youngest of our female writers, she instinctively fixes upon some theme of processional grace and beauty, and throws all the truth and tenderness of her sentiment around figures already interesting by historical association. The “ Infant Bridal” might be transferred to canvas without altering a word.

Richard Duke of York, second son of Edward IV., was married to Anne Mowbray, Duchess of Norfolk in her own right. The bridegroom was not five years old, and the bride scarcely three. The ceremony was performed in St. Stephen's Chapel, A.D. 1477."

The sunbeams of the early day

Streamed through the lattice grim,
And up the dark aisle’s pillared way

Swelled loud the nuptial hymn;
And passed along a gorgeous band

Of courtly dames and fair,
Of belted barons of the land

The bravest best were there.

But slowly moved the bright array,

For gently at its head
Two blooming children led the way

With short and doubtful tread:
The fair boy-bridegroom and the bride,

(Like Cupid's train in eld,)
Meekly and loving, side by side,

Each other's hands they held.

Half pleased and half surprised they seemed,

For in each kindred eye
Love mixed with pity fondly gleamed,

And mournful gravity.
A fear, for them who knew no fear,

On each heart darkly fell;
They view life's future through a tear

Who know the past too well.

The bridegroom bore a royal crown

Amid the shining hair,
That like a golden vail fell down

In tresses soft and fair.

The bearing of the noble child

His princely lineage told,
Beneath that brow so smooth and mild

The blood of warriors rolled.

All coyly went the sweet babe-bride;

Yet oft with simple grace,
She raised, soft-stepping by his side,

Her dark eyes to his face.
And playfellows who loved her well

Crowns of white roses bore,
And lived in after years to tell

The infant bridal o'er.

Then words of import strange and deep

The hoary prelate said,
And some had turned away to weep,

And many bowed the head.
Their steady gaze those children meek

Upon the old man bent,
As earnestly they seemed to seek

The solemn words' intent.

Calm in the blest simplicity

That never woke to doubt; Calm in the holy purity

Whose presence bars shame out! Then turned they from each troubled brow

And many a downcast eye, And gazed upon each other now

In wondering sympathy;

And nestled close, with looks of love,

Upon the altar's stone :
Such ties as Seraphs bind above

These little ones might own.
And sweetly was the babe-bride's cheek

Against the fair boy pressed,
All reverent, yet so fond and meek,

As kneeling to be blest.

Then smiled they on their grand array

And went forth hand in hand, Well pleased to keep high holyday

Amid that gorgeous band.
Alas! for those that early wed

With such prophetic gloom,
For sadly fell on each young head

The shadow of the tomb !

Scarce had the blossoms died away

Of the rose-wreaths they wore,
When to her moldering ancestry

The little bride they bore.
Her marriage garlands o'er her bier,

Bedewed with tears, were cast;
And still she smiled as though no fear

O’erclouded her at last.

A life as short, and darker doom

The gentle boy befell:
He slept not in his father's tomb,

For him was heard no knell!
One stifling pang amid his sleep

And the dark vale was passed !
He woke with those who've ceased to weep,

Whose sun is ne'er o'ercast.

A garland floats around the throne,

Entwined by angel hands,
Of such fair earth-buds, newly blown,

Culled from a thousand lands.
A melody most pure and sweet

Unceasingly they sing,
And blossoms o'er the mercy-seat

The loved babe-angels fling!

I have now to introduce another fair artist into the female gallery of which I am so proud ; an artist whose works seem to me to bear the same relation to sculpture that those of Mrs. Acton Tindal do to painting. The poetry of Miss Day is statuesque in its dignity, in its purity, in its repose. Purity is perhaps the distinguishing quality of this fine writer, pervading the conception, the thoughts and the diction. But she must speak for herself. As “ The Infant Bridal” might form a sketch for an historical picture, so “Charlotte Corday" is a model, standing ready to be chiseled in Parian stone.

Stately, and beautiful, and chaste,

Forth went the dauntless maid,
Her blood to yield, her youth to waste,

That carnage might be stayed.
This solemn purpose filled her soul,

There was no room for fear,
She heard the cry of vengeance roll

Prophetic on her ear.

She thought to. stem the course of crime

By one appalling deed,
She knew to perish in her prime

Alone would be her meed.
No tremor shook her woman's breast,

No terror blanched her brow,
She spoke, she smiled, she took her rest,

And hidden held her vow.

She mused upon her country's wrong,

Upon the tyrant's guilt,
Her settled purpose grew more strong

As blood was freshly spilt:
What though the fair smooth hand were slight !

It grasped the sharpened steel ;
A triumph flashed before her sight

The death that it should deal.

She sought her victim in his den

The tiger in his lair;
And though she found him feeble then,

There was no thought to spare.
Fast through his dying guilty heart,

That pity yet withstood,
She made her gleaming weapon dart,

And stained her soul with blood.

She bore the buffets and the jeer

Of an infuriate crowd ;
She asked no grace, she showed no fear,

She owned her act aloud.
She only quailed when woman's cries

Bewailed the monster's fate;
Her lips betrayed her soul's surprise

That fiends gained aught but hate.

She justified her deed of blood

In stern, exalted phrase,
As in the judgment-hall she stood

With calm, intrepid gaze.
And when she heard her awful doom,

Before the morn to die,
Her cheek assumed a brighter bloom,

And triumph lit her eye.

She marked a painter's eamest gaze,

She raised to him her face, That he for men in other days

Her raptured mien might trace.