202 THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD. If sinless angels love as we, Who stood thy grave beside, I wander'd to thy buried mound, As if a sultan's white-robed slaves Nay, the soft pinions of the air, May sweetest dews and warmest ray When damps beneath, and storms above, Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust, THE SHADED WATER. BY WILLIAM G. SIMMS. WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise It is a quiet glen as you may see, Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, Few know its quiet shelter,-none, like me, And all the day, with fancies ever new, And sweet companions from their boundless store Of merry elves, bespangled all with dew, Fantastic creatures of the old time lore,— 204 THE SHADED WATER. A gracious couch,-the root of an old oak, It hangs above the stream that idly plies, There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, While every sense, on earnest mission sent, Returns, thought-laden, back with bloom and flower, Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, A profitable toil. And still the waters, trickling at my feet, Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,— Yet not so rudely as to send one sound Through the thick copse around. Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, press'd On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,— And, with awaken'd vision upward bent, I watch the firmament. How like its sure and undisturb'd retreat, The bending trees that overshade my form; THE FUTURE LIFE. Thus, to my mind, is the philosophy The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight, 205 THE FUTURE LIFE. BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps When all of thee that time could wither sleeps For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven? The love that lived through all the stormy past, 206 THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bow'd thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll; Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. BY EMMA C. EMBURY. O! FOR One draught of those sweet waters now O! that I could but bathe my fever'd brow To wash away the dust of worldly strife! And be a simple-hearted child once more, As if I ne'er had known this world's pernicious lore! My heart is weary, and my spirit pants Beneath the heat and burden of the day; Would that I could regain those shady haunts, Where once, with Hope, I dream'd the hours away, Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, And yielding up my soul to youth's delicious trance! |