"The barley-harvest was nodding white, When my children died on the rocky height, And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. But now the season of rain is nigh, The sun is dim in the thickening sky, And the clouds in sullen darkness rest Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. I saw an aged man upon his bier, His hair was thin and white, and on his brow A record of the cares of many a year;— Cares that were ended and forgotten now. And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, Then rose another hoary man and said, In faltering accents, to that weeping train, "Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast. "Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head. "Why weep ye then for him, who, having won While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set? "His youth was innocent; his riper age Marked with some act of goodness every day; Cheerful he gave his being up, and went "That life was happy; every day he gave "And I am glad that he has lived thus long, For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." THE RIVULET. THIS little rill, that from the springs My little feet, when life was new. And from the chambers of the west List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, With blooming cheek and open brow, As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried gay The scenes of life before me lay. A name I deemed should never die. Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, How swift the years have passed away. Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wandered in the forest shade. Thou ever joyous rivulet, Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; The windings of thy silver wave, And dancing to thy own wild chime, As pure thy limpid waters run, |