ELLEN.

Ellen, my heart is not yet thine,
  And still I can but sigh,
Whene’er I view thy semblance shine
  In Memory’s mirror nigh.

Thy brow so soft—­thy cheek so fair—­
  Thy looks so sweetly mild—­
Thy angel air—­thy angel smile,
  My spirit have beguiled.

Ellen, my heart is not yet thine,
  But oft my fancy dreams—­
When evening’s peaceful shades decline
  Along our mountain streams.

Yes! oft my tranced fancy sees,
  Mid evening’s deepening shade,
Thy airy form—­and, in the breeze,
  Thy voice I hear, sweet maid!

Oh!  Ellen! may yon heavens smile,
  On thee, their beauteous birth,
And with the loveliest joys beguile
  Thy path amid the earth.

THE SABBATH WORSHIPPER.

’Twas Sabbath morn.  A holy light
  Hung o’er the hill and wood,
O’er wooded stream, and lofty height,
  And mighty solitude. 
All Nature lay in bright repose,
And from her silent lips arose,
In mystic accents through the air,
The voice of worship, praise, and prayer.

I gazed into the bright, blue sky,
  Then bent my eyes to view,
The earth which lay so sweetly by
  In robes of summer hue;
I dreamed that blessed ones might deign,
To leave their radiant seats again,
Nor weep to yield their home in heaven,
For the bright ones that Earth had given.

On morn, so holy, pure, and bright—­
  I looked on one most fair,
Whose braided hair was dark as night,
  And wrought with maiden care—­
Forth issue from her father’s door,
Walking with sweet mien evermore,
As if blest spirits led her there,
And she beheld their forms in air.

Hark! how it thrills the holy air—­
  The choir’s high song of praise,
Which many voices mingling there
  In sweetest concert, raise,
And oh! how warmly, fervently
Those words of prayer ascend the sky,
And joined with that loud strain of praise
Blend with the song that Seraphs raise.

And sits that lovely lady there,
  Uniting in the strain? 
And does she bend her form so fair,
  When silence comes again? 
Yes! she was there, and lovelier there,
Than she this hour could be elsewhere;
Though few beneath yon heavenly sky
Might with her erring beauty vie.

TO ——.

As some gay flow’ret brightly rears,
  Its head beside the pilgrim’s way,
And charms away his flowing tears,
  And glads him, with its blessed ray—­
Sweet Mary—­“Angel without wing,”
  Heaven gave thee man’s rough path to cheer—­
To bid the mourner smile and sing,
  “At last, Earth is not wholly drear.”

WHERE IS OUR BROTHER?

Where is our brother?  I have come
  From wandering far and long,
And oh!  I miss one well-known face,
  Gone from our little throng.