162

THE BROTHERS.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

THE BROTHERS.

BY C. SPRAGUE.

-the others sleep

WE ARE BUT TWO-1

Through death's untroubled night;
We are but two-O, let us keep

The link that binds us bright.

Heart leaps to heart-the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;

That good old man—his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.

We in one mother's arms were lock'd

Long be her love repaid;

In the same cradle we were rock'd,
Round the same hearth we play'd.

Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and woe;-

Let manhood keep alive the flame,

Lit up so long ago.

WE ARE BUT Two-be that the band
To hold us till we die;

Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,

Till side by side we lie.

THE FATHER'S DEATH.

BY H. R. JACKSON.

As die the embers on the hearth,

And o'er the floor the shadows fall, And creeps the chirping cricket forth, And ticks the death-watch in the wallI see a form in yonder chair,

That grows beneath the waning light— There are the wan, sad features-there, The pallid brow, and locks of white! MY FATHER! when they laid thee down, And heap'd the clay upon thy breast, And left thee sleeping all alone

Upon thy narrow couch of rest-
I know not why, I could not weep-
The soothing drops refused to roll,
And oh that grief is wild and deep,
Which settles tearless on the soul!

But when I saw thy vacant chair—
Thine idle hat upon the wall-
Thy book-the pencil'd passage where
Thine eye had rested last of all;
The tree, beneath whose friendly shade,
Thy trembling feet had wander'd forth-

The very prints those feet had made
When last they feebly trod the earth;
And thought, while countless ages fled,
Thy vacant seat would vacant stand-
Unworn thy hat, thy book unread,
Effaced thy footsteps from the sand—

164

"ARE WE NOT EXILES HERE?"

And widow'd in this cheerless world,

The heart that gave its love to thee-
Torn, like a vine whose tendrils curl'd
More closely round the falling tree!—

Oh! Father, then, for her and thee,

Gush'd madly forth the scorching tears,
And oft, and long, and bitterly,

Those tears have gush'd in later years;
For as the world grows cold around,
And things take on their real hue,
'Tis sad to learn that love is found
Alone above the stars with you!

"ARE WE NOT EXILES HERE?"

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

ARE we not exiles here?

Come there not o'er us memories of a clime
More genial and more dear

Than this of time?

When deep vague wishes press

Upon the soul and prompt it to aspire,

A mystic loneliness,

And wild desire;

When our long-baffled zeal

Turns back in mockery on the weary heart,
Till, at the sad appeal,

Dismay'd we start;

"ARE WE NOT EXILES HERE?"

And like the Deluge dove, Outflown upon the world's cold sea we lie, And all our dreams of love

In anguish die?

Nature no more endears;

Her blissful strains seem only breathed afar,
Nor mount, nor flower cheers,

Nor smiling star.

Familiar things grow strange;

Fond hopes like tendrils shooting to the air,
Through friendless being range,
To meet despair.

And, nursed by secret tears,

Rich but frail visions in the heart have birth,
And this fair world appears

A homeless earth.

Then must we summon back

Blest guides, who long ago have met the strife,

And left a radiant track

To mark their life,

Then must we look around

On heroes' deeds—the landmarks of the brave,

And hear their cheers resound

From off the wave.

Then must we turn from show,

Pleasure and fame, the phantom race of care,

And let our spirits flow

In earnest prayer,

165

THE MERRIMACK.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

STREAM of my fathers! sweetly still The sunset rays thy valley fill;

Pour'd slantwise down the long defile,
Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.
I see the winding Powow fold

The green hill in its belt of gold,
And following down its wavy line,
Its sparkling waters blend with thine.
There's not a tree upon thy side,
Nor rock, which thy returning tide
As yet hath left abrupt and stark
Above thy evening water-mark;
No calm cove with its rocky hem,
No isle whose emerald swells begem
Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail
Bow'd to the freshening ocean gale;
No small boat with its busy oars,
Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;
Nor farm-house with its maple shade,
Or rigid poplar colonnade,

But lies distinct and full in sight,
Beneath this gush of sunset light.
Centuries ago, that harbour-bar,
Stretching its length of foam afar,
And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,
And yonder island's wave-smooth'd strand,
Saw the adventurer's tiny sail

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;