Where shall my spirit find an ark,

That shall be meet for me,

To bear me through the unknown dark

Of dread eternity.

Flowers may be bright, isles may be fair, Hearts dear-but they must end;

And then, when comes the hour of care, On which can I depend?

But, whilst unto our souls 't is given

To look beyond the tomb;

While we cast all our care on Heaven,

We shall not want a home!

THE DAUGHTER.

Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven;

And if there be a human tear

From passion's dregs refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,

It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed,
Upon a duteous daughter's head.

SCOTT.

'Tis twilight-o'er the cottage door

The linden branches droop,

And on the green that lies before,

Is seen a happy group;

An aged man is sitting there,

Surrounded by his children fair.

His children now his only stay;

Their mother-where is she?

Snatched to the regions of decay,
As all who live must be :

Yet he is happy-for still those
Are left to see his evening close.

He gazes on his sons' bright heads

With all a father's pride,

The smile his features overspreads,
As round his path they glide.
But oh! the tear-drop fills his eye,
Whene'er he sees her glancing by.

For who so swift to bring to him

The earliest flowers of spring?

Who can so well the wine-cup brim

Who can so sweetly sing?

Who watch with such unwearied care

His every step-who look so fair?

And though the manly laugh of mirth

May make his heart rejoice,

How sad would be his winter hearth,

Without her gentler voice ;

The lighter step, the sweeter tone-
These can belong to her alone.

Is she not lovely, with the blush

Floating across her cheek;

The voice that can so sweetly gush,

In tones so fond and meek?

Would he not mourn her more than all,

If she should in her beauty fall?

Though to her brothers' spirits free,
He still for aid might cling,

How desolate his life would be,

Without that dearest thing;

Ambition's hopes would perish too,

Like flowerets unrefreshed with dew.

And vainly would the voice of fame
Be raised to speak the worth

And glory of each other name,

If she were gone from earth;
Sadly he'd greet each noble boy,
If she no more could share his joy.

But lo! their mingling voices rise
Through the still evening dim,
Ascending gently to the skies,

In their sweet vesper hymn;

And 'midst them all her voice is heard, Floating the softliest o'er each word.

They part-their evening song is done,

And all is silent now;

But when tomorrow eve the sun

Shall cease once more to glow,

Again shall rise that tenderer tone,
That can belong to her alone!