Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain, And this fair world of sight and sound Seem fading into night again? The things, oh LIFE! thou quickenest, all Back to earth's bosom when they die. All that have borne the touch of death, There lies my chamber dark and still, In the sweet air and sunshine sweet. Well, I have had my turn, have been And for a glorious moment seen The brightness of the skirts of God; And knew the light within my breast, The power, the will, that never rest, And cannot die, were all from him. Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve To see me taken from thy love, Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve, And weep, and scatter flowers above. Thy little heart will soon be healed, To younger forms of life must yield When we descend to dust again, Where will the final dwelling be "EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH." EARTH'S children cleave to Earth-her frail Decaying children dread decay. Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale, Look, how, by mountain rivulet, Yet all in vain-it passes still From hold to hold, it cannot stay, And in the very beams that fill The world with glory, wastes away, Till, parting from the mountain's brow, A portion of the glorious sky. THE HUNTER'S VISION. UPON a rock that, high and sheer, Rose from the mountain's breast, A weary hunter of the deer Had sat him down to rest, And bared to the soft summer air All dim in haze the mountains lay, With dimmer vales between ; And rivers glimmered on their way, By forests faintly seen; While ever rose a murmuring sound, From brooks below and bees around. He listened, till he seemed to hear A strain, so soft and low, The listener scarce might know. With such a tone, so sweet and mild, The watching mother lulls her child. "Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, The pleasant land of rest is spread And those whom thou wouldst gladly see Are waiting there to welcome thee." He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky A shadowy region met his eye, And grew beneath his gaze, As if the vapours of the air Had gathered into shapes so fair. Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers Showed bright on rocky bank, And fountains welled beneath the bowers, He saw the glittering streams, he heard And friends-the dead-in boyhood dear, A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride- |