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You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'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 you'll forgive me now:
You 'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow:
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.
If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,
And you 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 ever I have 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 rose-bush that I set
About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born,
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.

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise.
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay: and yet, His will be done!
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin.
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in :
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call:
It was when the morn was setting, and the dark was over all;
The bees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ;
With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,
And then did something speak to me - – I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, “It's not for them, it's mine."
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near: I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day,
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret:
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived - I cannot tell - I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine--
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mire.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun —
Forever and forever with those just souls and true-
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home-
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come -
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast-
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

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THE BELLS.

Edgar A. Poa
Hear the sledges with the bells -

Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells !

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

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Hear the mellow wedding bells —

Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !

Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune.

What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding-cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !

How it swells !

How it dwells
On the Future! - how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !
Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !

In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor

Now - now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells

Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear, it fully knows,

By the twanging

And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling

How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking and the swelling in the anger of the bells -

Of the bells -
Of he bells, bells, bells, bells,

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Bells, bells, bells,
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! .
Hear the tolling of the bells —

Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people — ah, the people —
They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human

They are Ghouls :
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With the pæan of the bells !
And he dances, and he yells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells -

Of the bells :
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells —

To the sobbing of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells :

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