"I look-where mortal man may not- I see the dead, long, long forgot; I see them in their sleep. A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, Save he who leagues his soul with death and wo." Thou mild, sad mother, waning moon, Thy last, low, melancholy ray Shines towards him.-Quit him not so soon! Mother, in mercy, stay! Despair and death are with him; and canst thou, O, thou wast born for things of love; In that soft light of thine, Hosts above, Burn softer:-earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven.- The far, low west is bright no more. At sea, or all along the shore, Thou living thing, and dar'st thou come so near Now long that thick, red light has shone But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns: The spectre-steed now slowly pales; The morning air blows fresh on him; The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim— He doth not hear that joyous call; he sees For he's accurst from all that's good; Thou stranger to earth's beauty-human love- The Death of the Flowers.-BRYANT. THE melancholy days are come, the saddest cf the year, sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. The Skies.-BRYANT. Ay, gloriously thou standest there, With that bright vault and sapphire wall, Far, far below thee, tall gray trees And hills, whose ancient summits freeze The eagle soars his utmost height; Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. Thou hast thy frowns: with thee, on high, His stores of hail and sleet: Thence the consuming lightnings break; Yet art thou prodigal of smiles Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern: Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, The glory that comes down from thee The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, The pomp that brings and shuts the day, Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there The sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, May thy blue pillars rise : I only know how fair they stand And they are fair: a charm is theirs, That earth-the proud, green earth-has not, We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, Oh! when, amid the throng of men, And look into thy azure breast, For seats of innocence and rest! From "The Minstrel Girl."-JAMES G. WHITTIER. HER lover died. Away from her, With death; but not from selfish fear: Which made existence doubly dear. And he would speak in his soft tone, And weep that there was nothing there! Her name was on his marble lips. Rememberings of after years. She poured one lone and plaintive wail "Weep for Yourselves, and for your Children."— MRS. SIGOURNEY. WE mourn for those who toil, The slave who ploughs the main, Or him who hopeless tills the soil Beneath the stripe and chain; For those who in the world's hard race A host of restless phantoms chase,— We mourn for those who sin, Bound in the tempter's snare, Whom syren pleasure beckons in To prisons of despair, Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn, Are wrecked on folly's shore,— But why in sorrow should we mourn We mourn for those who weep, |