MONTPELIER, ORANGE COUNTY, VA.

Where’er the great have lived or died,
  A charm pervades the very air;
And generous spirits, pausing, oft
  Will pour the heart’s deep homage there.

Thus, thou, sequestered, simple spot! 
  Where dwelt a mighty one of yore,
Becomest a shrine, where pilgrims kneel,
  From earth’s remotest, every shore.

Whose fame, where’er a patriot breathes
  A thought of freedom, has been heard;
And fallen on tyrant’s startled souls,
  Like coming fate’s prophetic word.

Yet, shame upon this senseless age,
  Which blindly worships guilty gold,
No votive marble shows the tomb,
  Whose vault received his ashes cold.

Alas! that this should be our shame! 
  For which even yet our eyes shall weep;
Nought points the world’s admiring eye,
  To where its friend’s sad relics sleep.

THE HEAVENLY FLOWER.

Now the final stroke is over! 
  And the heart hath ceased its beat;
And that form so palely beauteous,
  In a ghastly winding sheet. 
She has pass’d the gloomy portal,
  She has reached the realm of light;—­
And there is a heavy silence,
  While we sit and muse to-night.

She was a flower, fading quickly,
  From before our wistful eyes,
Giving back her spirit fragrance,
  Early to the eager skies. 
But she parted all so lovely,
  Growing brighter day by day,
That our souls could scarce regret her,
  Passing, like a dream, away.

Now that frail and beauteous flower,
  Which scarce opened here below,
Scattering round a heavenly sweetness,
  On the hearts which bled with woe;
By a death which maketh living,
  Changed into a lovelier flower,
Gives a fragrance far more lovely,
  Round about a deathless bower.

Oh! weep not for this, fond parents! 
  Though your earthly eyes be dim—­
Yet—­she blooms in fadeless beauty,
  Where the Seraphs chant their hymn;
Where a heaven, serenely glorious,
  Bends above a paradise,
Clad in tints of gayer splendor,
  Than our dream-land’s gorgeous dyes.

Yes! she blooms in deathless beauty,
  In that brighter world than ours;
Where the happy saints and angels,
  Gleam her glorious sister flowers;
Where no frost, no killing tempest,
  E’er shall fall, or fiercely blow,
But mild zephyrs, waked on roses,
  Round her softly come and go.

There she yet is pure and lovely
  As she was with us below—­
And our hearts should cease to mourn her,
  When her God hath bade us know—­
That, within that peaceful heaven,
  She is happier than before,
And that we should strive to meet her,
  When, like hers, our toil is o’er.

LILLY MAY.