THE ANNIVERSARY OF DEATH. MRS. JAMES GRAY. WE keep an anniversary to-day But not as those who mark with festal mirth The victories of ages pass'd away, Or sweet home-time of marriage or of birthWe wear the mourner's robes, we hush our breath: Ours is an anniversary of death! Oh, how this day recalls the bitter past! This summer day, our loved one's last of life; And this deep midnight hour, the very last Wherein she slumber'd from the final strife; Even now the death-damp crept o'er every limb, Even now her gentle eye grew glazed and dim. Methinks I see her yet-that fairest creature- Bearing the prophecy, of "earth to earth :" I see her yet, as on her death bed laid, Her face all still, yet mutely eloquentA solemn twilight, that was scarce a shade, Show'd on her brow, the fulness of contentThe small, white, drooping hand, the braided hair, The stirless lip, the cheek so calmly fair. One year ago, this night, my hands for her Still, 'midst my task, I dream'd her pulse must stir, A rigid corpse—a marble image changed From slumber's likeness to a sculptured form,A something sadly from our dreams estranged, That look'd as though with life 'twas never warm, That seem'd our hearts instinctively to draw, Yet thrill'd them with a deep, mysterious awe. Sweet one, thou liest in thy lowly tomb, We ask not of thy mortal relics now,— They perish'd like the wild flower's summer bloom; Said I that we should mourn? The thought I call at there be high and solemn festival, As for the saints of old, who pass'd away; C church of God marks each returning year th joyful reverence and hopeful cheer. We celebrate a victory,-o'er the earth, An entrance on a life that never dies We keep a marriage-feast—her darksome tomb Is but a passage to the Bridegroom's home. THE DREAMS OF OLD. MRS. JAMES GRAY. THE dreams of old are faded, Their wondrous spells are o'er; We cannot be persuaded To try their power once more. Our wisdom now is scorning What our fathers deem'd a boon ; The world's bright clouds of morning Yet, for the parted glory They shed on mortal mould, Think gently of the phantasy That framed the dreams of old. Where are the fairy legions That peopled vale and grove, I see her yet, as on her death bed laid, Show'd on her brow, the fulness of contentThe small, white, drooping hand, the braided hair, The stirless lip, the cheek so calmly fair. One year ago, this night, my hands for her Still, 'midst my task, I dream'd her pulse must stir, A rigid corpse -a marble image changed From slumber's likeness to a sculptured form,A something sadly from our dreams estranged, That look'd as though with life 'twas never warm, That seem'd our hearts instinctively to draw, Yet thrill'd them with a deep, mysterious awe. Sweet one, thou liest in thy lowly tomb, We ask not of thy mortal relics now, They perish'd like the wild flower's summer bloom; Yet are they garner'd as the seed we sow, From whose corruption God's great power shall bring An incorruptible and holy thing! Said I that we should mourn? The thought I call Let there be high and solemn festival, As for the saints of old, who pass'd away; The church of God marks each returning year With joyful reverence and hopeful cheer. We celebrate a victory,-o'er the earth, Its tribulation, its decay, its sighs— We celebrate a glorious day of birth, An entrance on a life that never dies We keep a marriage-feast-her darksome tomb Is but a passage to the Bridegroom's home. THE DREAMS OF OLD. MRS. JAMES GRAY. THE dreams of old are faded, Their wondrous spells are o'er; We cannot be persuaded To try their power once more. Our wisdom now is scorning What our fathers deem'd a boon ; The world's bright clouds of morning Have melted in her noon. Yet, for the parted glory They shed on mortal mould, Think gently of the phantasy That framed the dreams of old. Where are the fairy legions That peopled vale and grove, |