THE WIDOW OF NAIN.
And in the garden, when his spirit grew
'Exceeding sorrowful,' and those he loved
Forgot him in his agony, and slept—
How heavenly gentle was his mild reproach—
'Could ye not watch with me one hour? Sleep on
Sleep on!'-Forth from the city gates the throng
Followed the aged mourner. They came near
The place of burial, and with straining hands
Closer upon her breast she clasped the pall,
And with a hurried sob, quick as a child's,
And an inquiring wildness flashing through
The thin gray lashes of her fevered eyes,
She passed where Jesus stood beside the way.
He looked upon her and his heart was moved.
'Weep not!' he said, and as they stayed the bier
And at his bidding set it at his feet,
He gently drew the pall from out her hands,
And laid it back in silence from the dead.
With troubled wonder the mute crowd drew near
And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space
He stood and prayed. Then, taking the cold hand,
He said 'Arise!'—and instantly the breast
Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush
Ran through the lines of the divided lips,
And, with a murmur of his mother's name,
He trembled and sat upright in his shroud,
And while the mourner hung upon his neck—
Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain.
It came with spring's soft sun and showers,
Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers;
It flourished on the same light stem,
It drank the same clear dews with them.
The crimson tints of summer morn
That gilded one, did each adorn.
The breeze that whispered light and brief
To bud or blossom, kissed the leaf;
When o'er the leaf the tempest flew,
The bud and blossom trembled too..
But its companions passed away,
And left the leaf to lone decay.
The gentle gales of spring went by,
The fruits and flowers of summer die.
The autumn winds swept o'er the hill,
And winter's breath came cold and chill.
The leaf now yielded to the blast,
And on the rushing stream was cast.
Far, far it glided to the sea,
And whirled and eddied wearily,
Till suddenly it sank to rest,
And slumbered in the ocean's breast.
Thus life begins-its morning hours, Bright as the birthday of the flowers Thus passes like the leaves away,
As withered and as lost as they.
Beneath the parent roof we meet
In joyous groups, and gaily greet
The golden beams of love and light,
That kindle to the youthful sight.
But soon we part, and one by one,
Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone.
One gentle spirit seeks the tomb,
His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom.
Another treads the paths of fame,
And barters peace to win a name.
Another still tempts fortune's wave,
And seeking wealth, secures a grave.
The last grasps yet the brittle thread—
Though friends are gone and joy is dead,
Still dares the dark and fretful tide,
And clutches at its power and pride,
Till suddenly the waters sever,
And like the leaf he sinks forever.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
THE departed! the departed!
They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories,
Like shadows over streams;-
But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn, "The departed-the departed Can never more return!
The good, the brave, the beautiful!
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep,-
Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale Winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,
In the cities of the dead!
I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone-
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown.
I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees;
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.
That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think Earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of Summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me,
As their remembered words.
I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall!
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel plumage on;
But my heart is very desolate,
To think that they are gone.
The departed!-the departed!
They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories,
Like shadows over streams,
But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,
The departed-the departed
Can never more return!
BY W. 0. B. PEABODY.
LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold,
And let the evening sunlight in ;
I would not that my heart grow cold,
Before its better years begin!
'Tis well, at such an early hour
So calm and pure—a sinking ray
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