Puslapio vaizdai

Teach him the song that no one living knows? Let the man die, with that half-chant of his,-What Now discovers not Hereafter shows,

And God will surely teach him more than this.

Again the Bird. I turned, and passed along;

But Time and Death, Eternity and Change, Talked with me ever, and the climbing song Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange.



Till the poor little head was heavy,
And the poor little brain would swim.

E had played for his lordship's levee,
He had played for her ladyship's whim,

And the face grew peaked and eerie,

And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said-too late-" He is weary! He shall rest for, at least, To-night!"

But at dawn, when the birds were waking,
As they watched in the silent room,
With the sound of a strained cord breaking,
A something snapped in the gloom.

'Twas a string of his violoncello,

And they heard him stir in his bed: "Make room for a tired little fellow,

Kind God!" was the last that he said.



OW steadfastly she'd worked at it!
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest!

How longingly she'd hung on it !—
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.

He came at last, the tiny guest,
Ere bleak December fled;

That rosy nest he never prest....
Her coffin was his bed.



"The dead hand clasped a letter."


HERE, in this leafy place,

Quiet he lies,

Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies;

'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,—

Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence

Over men's graves:
So this man's eye is dim ;—
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,
There, at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died ;— Message or wish, may be ;— Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled!

Only the tremulous

Words of a child ;

Prattle, that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss,
Morning and night,
His-her dead father's-kiss;
Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet.
That is all. "Marguerite."

Ah, if beside the dead

Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain !

If the grief died ;—But no ;-
Death will not have it so.


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