216 
8 *>. 
And sorrowing friends stood round the bed 
Whereon a form was lying: 
? Twas Ellen;—there the suffering saint, 
Without a murmur or complaint, 
In peace and hope was dying. 
A silence deep as death was there 
When her true soul departed; 
And grace and mercy crowned her end 
Who lived the broken-hearted. 
MacKellar. 
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping 
O’er the chords of the youthful heart, 
And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping, 
Sees the visions of fancy depart; 
When the bloom of young feeling is dying, 
And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strife 
When our sad days are wasted in sighing, 
Who then can find sweetness in life? 
Mrs. Embury. 
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear, 
The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims. 
The spirit light has cast a farewell beam— 
Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged 
To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears, 
For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow 
In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose. 
But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us, 
Making that refresh which seemed to blast! 
C. Watson. 
