214 

 THE SWAN. 



Why are the sweet tones of thy voice unheard, 

 Amid thy native streams, thou gliding bird ? 

 Will not the fountains of thy music flow 

 Till Death unseal them in that breast of snow ? 



Heed well the sign ! Oh ! not to Life belong 

 The gladdening thoughts that wake my voice of Song ! 

 When Pain can thrill and arrow cleave no more 

 Blithe are my hymns along the reedy shore ! 



The Author of " Records of the Western Short. " 



COME TO THE WEARY ONES. 



Come to the weary ones 



Cloud -cinctured Night! 

 Wreathe for their resting place 



Dreams of delight : 

 Seal up in placidness 



Each weary eye ; 

 O ! yield to the sleepers 



What life may deny. 



Come to the loving ones 



Star-jewelled Ni^ht! 

 Shine on their lonely walks 



Silently bright ; 

 Breathe but a gentle wind 



O'er their fond way, 

 Let not a weeping cloud 



Gloom where they stray. 



Come to the mournful ones 



O! soothing Night! 

 Shade with thy kindly wing, 



Pale Sorrow's blight : 

 Strew on the fevered brain 



Sleep's quiet balm : 

 Stay till the throbbing heart 



Sink into calm. 



FKANX. 



