When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waving light, Ye'll never see me more in the long, gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush in the pool. Ye'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthornshade, And ye 'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid; I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but ye'll forgive me now; Ye'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay,—nay, be wild, Ye shall not fret for me, mother, ye have another child. -ye must not weep, nor let your grief If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my restingplace; Though ye 'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what ye say, And be often and often with you, when ye think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said gocd-night for evermore, And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green; She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been. She 'll find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor; Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden more; But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn; All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year, So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. Wordsworth. SHE was a phantom of delight To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet And now I see, with eye serene, THE LOST PLEIAD. - Mrs. Hemans. AND is there glory from the heavens departed?--O void unmarked!-thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high, Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? No desert seems to part those urns of light, They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning, The shepherd greets them on his mountains free And from the silvery sea To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning, Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? A world sinks thus, and yon majestic heaven CORONACH.*- Sir W. Scott. He is gone on the mountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount, reäppearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, *Funeral song. The autumn winds, rushing Fleet foot on the corei,* How sound is thy slumber! Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter! no crowds attend; Enter! no guards defend This palace-gate. * The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. |