The old affection mild Still springs up undefiled For love, and friend, and child. The old faiths grown more wide, Are still our life-long guide. Nothing that once has been, And it be no more seen, Can perish, for the Will LEWIS MORRIS. IFE knows no dead so beautiful As is the white cold-coffin'd past; The dead are faithful to the last. JOAQUIN MILLER. CHANGED. ROM the outskirts of the town, Of the dark and haunted wood. Is it changed, or am I changed? Bright as ever flows the sea, But, alas! they seem to me Not the tides that used to run. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. PIKE to the moan of buried rivers, MOIKE Heard faintly as they roam, While the wild rock around them shivers Through sheets of sunless foam; Beneath the life that weighs and presses, With muffled undertone, Throbs in the spirit's worn recesses, If, in the tumult of existence, It whisper soft and low, Yea seem, scarce heard through depths of distance, To melt away and go: Yet oft, when stars more whitely glitter, When moons are waning chill, That tide unseen grows loud and bitter, LIKE TO THE MOAN of buried RIVERS. 185 And, as the other night, unbroken And starless, hangs around, Old words, half thought, old thoughts, half spoken, Though Death's dumb frost all else is hushing, The voice not lost, the stream still rushing, Shall murmur to the last. SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. |