WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

(AIR. - BEETHOVEN.)

WHO is the Maid my spirit seeks,
Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No-wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if, at times, a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,

From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,

As if themselves were things divine. No - Heaven but faintly warms the breast, That beats beneath a broider'd veil;

And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.*

Not so the faded form I prize

And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes

Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR.- STEVENSON.)

THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;

And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb

There's nothing bright but Heaven!

* Ου γιτρ πρυσοφορειν την δακρυουσαν δει. -- Chrysost. Homil Bin Epist. ad Tim.

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way-
There's nothing calm but Heaven!

OF THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR

(AIR.- HAYDN.)

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds." Psalm exlvii. 8.

Он Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from that wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,

Oh, who could bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

(AIR. - AVISON.)

WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it;

'T was frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has un

chain'd it,

To water that Eden where first was its source Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,*
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.

Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was un known

And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,

Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own. Weep not for her - - in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd;

And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

* This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, aitudes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after: the sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interest ing girl had often heard me sing during the summer.

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