THE WIDOW.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

THE Courtly hall is gleaming bright
With fashion's graceful throng-
All hearts are chain'd in still delight,
For like the heaven-borne voice of night
Breathes Handel's sacred song.
Nor on my spirit melts in vain

The deep-the wild-the mournful strain
That fills the echoing hall

(Though many a callous soul be there)
With sighs, and sobs, and cherish'd pain—
-While on a face, as seraph's fair,
Mine eyes in sadness fall.

Not those the tears that smiling flow
As fancied sorrow bleeds,

Like dew upon the rose's glow;
-That lady, 'mid the glittering show
Is clothed in Widow's weeds.
She sits in reverie profound,

And drinks and lives upon the sound,
As if she ne'er would wake!

Her clos'd eyes cannot hold the tears

That tell what dreams her soul have bound—

In memory they of other years

For a dead husband's sake.

Methinks her inmost soul lies spread

Before my tearful sight

A garden whose best flowers are dead,
A sky still fair (though darkened)
With hues of lingering light.
I see the varying feelings chase
Each other o'er her pallid face,
From shade to deepest gloom.
She thinks on living objects dear,
And pleasure lends a cheerful grace;
But oh! that look so dim and drear,
-Her heart is in the tomb.

Rivalling the tender crescent moon
The star of evening shines-

A warm, still, balmy night of June,
Low-murmuring with a fitful tune
From yonder grove of pines.
In the silence of that starry sky,
Exchanging vows of constancy,
Two happy lovers stray.

-To her how sad and strange! to know,
In darkness while the phantoms fade,
That one a widow'd wretch is now,
The other in the clay.

Yet dearer than that rosy glow
To me yon cheek so wan;
Lovely I thought it long ago,

But lovelier far now blanch'd with woe
Like the breast-down of the swan.
Then worship ye the sweet-the young-
Hang on the witchcraft of her tongue,
Wild murmuring like the lute.
On thee, O lady, let me gaze,
Thy soul is now a lyre unstrung,
But I hear the voice of other days,
Though these pale lips be mute.

Lovely thou art! yet none may dare
That placid soul to move.

Most beautiful thy braided hair,
But awful holiness breathes there

Unmeet for earthly love.

More touching far than deep distress

Thy smiles of languid happiness,
That like the gleams of Even

O'er thy calm cheek serenely play.

Thus at the silent hour we bless, Unmindful of the joyous day,

The still sad face of heaven.