And one, with a bright lip, and cheek,
And eye, is dead to me.
How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek!
His lip was cold-it would not speak;
His heart was dead, for it did not break;
And his eye, for it did not sce.
Then for the living be the tomb,
And for the dead the smile ;
Engrave oblivion on the tomb
Of pulseless life and deadly bloom-
Dim is such glare; but bright the gloom
Around the funeral pile.
The Deep.-BRAINARD.
THERE's beauty in the deep:-
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And, though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.
There's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.
There's quiet in the deep:-
Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend,
Thein and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.
Scene after a Summer Shower.-PROFESSOR NORTON.
THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the dark blue sky!
In grateful silence, earth receives
The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.
The softened sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
The wind flows cool; the scented ground
Is breathing odors on the gale.
Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest, to gaze below awhile,
Then turn to bathe and revel there.
The sun breaks forth; from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green
With trembling drops of light is hung.
Now gaze on Nature-yet the same-
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,
Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.
Hear the rich music of that voice,
Which sounds from all below, above;
She calls her children to rejoice,
And round them throws her arms of love.
Drink in her influence; low-born care,
And all the train of mean desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And 'mid this living light expire.
The Child's Wish in June.-MRS. GILMAN.
MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee, let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.
See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,
But very lazily flieth he,
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.
You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near,
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.
I wish, oh, I wish, I was yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,
And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.
From "The Minstrel Girl."-JAMES G. WHITTIER.
SHE leaned against her favorite tree,
The golden sunlight melting through
The twined branches, as the free
And easy-pinioned breezes flew
Around the bloom and greenness there,
Awaking all to life and motion,
Like unseen spirits sent to bear
Earth's perfume to the barren ocean
That ocean lay before her then
Like a broad lustre, to send back
The scattered beams of day again
To burn along its sunset track!
And broad and beautiful it shone;
As quickened by some spiritual breath,
Its very waves seemed dancing on
To music whispered underneath.
And there she leaned, that minstrel girl!
The breeze's kiss was soft and meek
Where coral melted into pearl
On parted lip and glowing cheek;
Her dark and lifted eye had caught
Its lustre from the spirit's gem;
And round her brow the light of thought
Was like an angel's diadem;
For genius, as a living coal,
Had touched her lip and heart with flame,
And on the altar of her soul
The fire of inspiration came.
And early she had learned to love
Each holy charm to Nature given,
The changing earth, the skies above,
Were prompters to her dreams of Heaven!
She loved the earth-the streams that wind
Like music from its hills of green-
The stirring boughs above them twined-
The shifting light and shade between :--
The fall of waves-the fountain gush-
The sigh of winds-the music heard
At even-tide, from air and bush-
The minstrelsy of leaf and bird.
But chief she loved the sunset sky-
Its golden clouds, like curtains drawi
To form the gorgeous canopy
Of monarchs to their slumbers gone
The sun went down,—and, broad and red One moment, on the burning wave
Rested his front of fire, to shed
A glory round his ocean-grave:
And sunset-far and gorgeous hung
A banner from the wall of heaven-
A wave of living glory, flung
Along the shadowy verge of even.
Description of a sultry Summer's Noon.*—
CARLOS WILCOX.
A SULTRY NOON, not in the summer's prime,
When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom,
But near its close, when vegetation stops,
And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun,
Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms,
Its images of silence and of rest,
The melancholy mind. The fields are still;
The husbandman has gone to his repast,
And, that partaken, on the coolest side
Of his abode, reclines, in sweet repose.
Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stana,
The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone,
And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe,
No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves,
While with their motion, dim and bright by turns,
The sunshine seems to move; nor e'en a breath
Brushes along the surface with a shade
Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke.
The slender stalks their heavy bended heads
Support as motionless as oaks their tops.
O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still;
E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung
By stems elastic, quiver at a breath,
Rest in the general calm. The thistle down,
Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside
*How perfect is this description of the hot noon of a summer's day in the country and yet how simple and unstudied! Several of its most expressive images are entirely new, and the whole graphic combination is originala quality very difficult to attain after Thomson and Cowper. The thistle alighting sleepily on the grass, the yellow-hammer mutely picking the seeds, the grasshopper snapping his wings, and the low singing of the locust—all the Images, indeed, make up a picture inimitably beautiful and true to nature,
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