There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!
There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd?
Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last!
I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now-
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace—
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown :
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!
They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a land where there falls no blight-
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne-
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore-
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more;
go And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye
where the loved who have left you dwell,
MRS F. HEMANS, 1793-1835.
THERE's not a leaf within the bower,
There's not a bird upon the tree,
There's not a dew-drop on the flower,
But bears the impress, Lord! of Thee.
Thy hand the varied leaf design'd,
And gave the bird its thrilling tone;
Thy power the dew-drop's tints combined,
Till like the diamond's blaze they shone.
Yes; dew-drops, leaves, and birds, and all,
The smallest like the greatest things;
The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball,
Alike proclaim Thee King of kings.
But man alone to bounteous Heaven
Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise,
To favour'd man alone 'tis given
To join the angelic choir in praise!
MRS OPIE, 1769–1853.
WITH what a glory comes and goes the year!
The birds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the cluster'd trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillar'd clouds.-
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales
The gentle Wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimson'd,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary.-Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings ;
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
Oh what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well-perform'd, and days well-spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.
H. W. LONGFELLOW, 1807
In every copse and shelter'd dell,
Unveil'd to the observant eye,
Are faithful monitors who tell
How pass the hours and seasons by.
The green-robed children of the spring
Will mark the periods as they pass,
Mingle with leaves Time's feather'd wing,
And bind with flowers his silent glass.
Mark where transparent waters glide,
Soft flowing o'er their tranquil bed; There, cradled on the dimpling tide, Nymphæa rests her lovely head.
But conscious of the earliest beam,
She rises from her humid nest,
And sees, reflected in the stream,
The virgin whiteness of her breast.
Till the bright day-star to the west
Declines, in ocean's surge to lave;
Then, folded in her modest vest,
She slumbers on the rocking wave.
See Hieracium's various tribe,
Of plumy seed and radiate flowers, The course of Time their blooms describe, And wake or sleep appointed hours.
Broad o'er its imbricated cup
The Goatsbeard spreads its golden rays,
But shuts its cautious petals up,
Retreating from the noontide blaze.
Pale as a pensive cloister'd nun,
The Bethlem-star her face unveils, When o'er the mountain peers the sun, But shades it from the vesper gales.
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