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“ I look-where mortal man may not-
I see them in their sleep.
Thou mild, sad mother, waning moon
Mother, in mercy, stay!
0, thou wast born for things of love;
In that soft light of thine,
The far, low west is bright no more
But cry of passing bird.
Now long that thick, red light has shone
So motionless are they.
The spectre-steed now slowly pales;
Which wrapt them like a shroud.
The morning air blows fresh on him;
The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim
0, blessed morning light ! He doth not hear that joyous call; he sees No beauty in the wave; he feels no breeze.
For he's accurst from all that's good;
Must wait, alone, his hour.
The Death of the Flowers.-BRYANT.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
the wither'd leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbits tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the sh:ub 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 ? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty
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.
Ay, gloriously thou standest there,
Beautiful, boundless firmament!
And round the horizon bent,
Far, far below thee, tall gray trees
Arise, and piles built up of old,
In the fierce light and cold.
Thou hast thy frowns: with thee, on high,
The storm has made his airy seat:
His stores of hail and sleet:
Yet art thou prodigal of smiles
Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern:
A song at their return;
The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine,
The pomp that brings and shuts the day,
The airs that fan his way.
The sunny Italy may boast
The beauteous tints that flush her skies,
May thy blue pillars rise :-
And they are fair: a charm is theirs,
That earth-the proud, green earth—has not,
That haunt her sweetest spot.
Oh! when, amid the throng of men,
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth,
Away from this cold earth,
From “ The Minstrel Girl.”—JAMES G. WHITTIER.
HER lover died. Away from her,
The ocean-girls his requiem sang,
Where the tall coral branches sprang.
With death; but not from selfish fear:
Which made existence doubly dear.
Revealed the phantom of his brain-
Her vigils at his couch of pain ;
And he would speak in his soft tone,
And stretch his arms to clasp the air,
And weep that there was nothing there!
Beneath the spoiler's cold eclipse,
Her name was on his marble lips.
It was too strangely sad for tears ;
Rememberings of after years.
For the loved dead-it was her last-
Her minstrelsy of spirit passed :
Forgetful of her olden shrine,
With all beneath the fair sunshine.
“Weep for Yourselves, and for your Children”.
We mourn for those who toil,
The slave who ploughs the main,
Beneath the stripe and chain;
O’erwearied and unblest,
Why mourn for those who rest?
Bound in the tempter's snare,
To prisons of despair,
Are wrecked on folly's shore,-
For those who sin no more?
We mourn for those who weep,
Whom stern afflictions bend