ins catch the glow,
And flowers in the nearer fields are born.

The souls of the happy dead repair,
From their bowers of light, to that bordering land,
And walk in the fainter glory there,
With the souls of the living, hand in hand.

One calm sweet smile in that shadowy sphere,
From eyes that open on earth no more--
One warning word from a voice once dear--
How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er!

Far off from those hills that shine with day,
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales,
The Land of Dreams goes stretching away
To dimmer mountains and darker vales.

There lie the chambers of guilty delight,
There walk the spectres of guilty fear,
And soft low voices that float through the night
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear.

Dear maids, in thy girlhood's opening flower,
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play!
The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower
That freshens the early blooms of May!

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams,
And I know, by the moving lips, that now
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams.

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet!
Oh keep where that beam of Paradise falls;
And only wander where thou may'st meet
The blessed ones from its shining walls.

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams,
With love and peace, to this world of strife;
And the light that over that border streams
Shall lie on the path of thy daily life.

SONNET--TO S. D. A.

BY "THE SQUIRE."

When the young Morning, like a new-drest bride,
With pearls of dew fresh glistening in her hair,
Walks through the east in early summer-tide.
Her robe loose floating on the scented air,
The laughing hours assembled at her side
Or circling round her--then is she less fair
Than, in my heart, the picture, sweet and rare,
Thy presence left.--My books go unperused,
Old friends are shunned, and time flies by unused,
While I, grown idle, nothing do but dream;
Gazing upon that picture till I seem
_Thyself_, again, before my eyes to see,
And not the ideal show: so that to me
The semblance turns to sweet reality.

[Illustration
_Engraved by T. S. WELCH. FOR GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE_
_FROM AN ORIGINAL DAGUERREOTYPE_]

_Entered a