Though life had lost its early charm,
Yet Ellen rose above despair:

She knew her William's heart was warm,

And she would seek for shelter there.

And lone and dreary is the road; Fast closes in departing day—

The hill is steep-the moor is broad.

She wanders forward, sad and slow;
Behind the hill is sunk the sun,
And thick descends the flaky snow,
Like ermine on night's mantle dun.

Now, louder blows the sweeping blast, And fiercely drives the rattling hail, The Spirits of the Storm have pass'd, Deep moaning on the mountain gale!

They bellow in the waving wood,

And howl on dark-brown hills around; They murmur in the distant flood, Till echo catch the wailing sound.

Night's gloomy pall abroad is spread,

And louder, wilder raves the storm O'er Ellen's homeless, houseless head;

And tremor shakes her feeble form:

The pelting hail her sight bedims;

The night is dark-the hill is steepWeak are the wanderer's weary limbs,

And driving snows around her sweep :

She climbs, and crawls, and struggles on, And turns around, and gasps for breath; But nature fails-her strength is gone

She sinks upon the frozen heath!

The wither'd fern waves o'er her head,
Cold pillow'd on the mountain snow;

She murmurs, on her chilly bed,

"Ah! William knows not Ellen's wo!

"His home is now not distant far ; But ah! that hill is steep and high!

To light my weary steps, no star

Appears in that deep murky sky!"

She shakes the round hail from her hair,
The big drop brushes from her eyes;
She leans upon the brown rock bare,—
Her stiffening limbs refuse to rise!

And now her tears in torrents flow, (Her pale cheek resting on her arm)—

They mingle with the feather'd snow

That melts upon that cheek, still warm.

A numbness o'er her senses creeps―
Alas! for Ellen's lovely form!

The fair upon the brown heath sleeps,-
Her lullaby the midnight storm!

Ah! long and dreary is the night!
But Ellen rests in peace profound:
The morning sun is shining bright,

And still the fair is sleeping sound.

Her locks are waving in the gale,

Her bosom filled with drifted snow; Her lips are lifeless, cold, and pale! Her eyes are closed on all below!

The pitying Angel hover'd nigh,
With him her gentle spirit fled !

He heard the night winds o'er her sigh,
And bade her slumber with the dead!

The sun shone brightly on a tear,
Congeal'd upon her cheek that lay;
It was a drop to Virtue dear,

And mounted on a sparkling ray.

Where swells the sod in richer green,
Where aspen leaves still fluttering wave,
Where morning dews are brighter seen,
That spot is Ellen's early grave!

To deck the turf that wraps her head,
In winter frost, the snow-drop springs;
And soft, above her grassy bed,
Her matin lay the linnet sings.

There is some sprite that never sleeps,
But nightly tells the mournful tale,
And, hovering o'er these grey rocks, weeps
For Ellen, Flower of Isla's vale!

THE TWIN SISTERS.

One of these men is genius to the other;

And so, of these which is the natural man,
And which the spirit? Who decyphers them
SHAKESPEARE.

EMMA and EMILY GRAHAM were twin daughters of a respectable farmer and cattle-dealer in Perthshire. The girls bore such a striking resemblance to each other, that their mother found it necessary to clothe them in different colours, as the only method by which they could be distinguished. As they grew up, their similarity became, if possible, more perfect; the colour of their eyes and hair had no shade of difference; and, indeed, every feature of their faces, their form and stature, were so exactly alike, that the same distinction of different dresses continued necessary. They had a brother, Edward, about fifteen months younger, who bore as great a likeness to both as they did to each other. When the girls arrived at nine or ten years of age, they gave promise of being rather above the ordinary stature of their sex, with a very considerable

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