And thought within her dwells--
Thought, holy as the light that lies
In the rapt martyr's lifted eyes.

Her home--'tis far away from her,
Its quiet porch is lone,
And the sunny wind no more shall stir
Its streamlet's silver tone.
The zephyrs there, their incense wreathe,
But, o'er her hair they shall not breathe.

Her sire reposeth in the wave,
Beneath an Indian sky;
The violets fringe her mother's grave,
And there, her sisters lie!
And we will waft to heaven our prayers,
When her pure dust is mix'd with theirs.

_Deal_. REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

* * * * *


WINE.

_(For the Mirror.)_


Sir,--I am induced to send you the following, in consequence of reading
an article upon _wine_ in No. 352, page 45 of your interesting work.