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When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the
waving light, Ye'll never see me more in the long, gray fields at
night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow
cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush
in the pool.
Ye ?ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn
'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid; I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when
you pass, With your feet above my head, in the long and pleas
I have been wild and wayward, but ye 'll forgive me
now; Ye 'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and
brow; Nay,-- nay, --ye must not weep, nor let your grief
be wild, Ye shall not fret for me, mother, ye have another child.
If I can I 'll come again, mother, from out my resting
place; Though ye 'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon
your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what
ye say, And be often and often with you, when ye think I'm
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said gocd-night
for evermore, And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the
door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave
growing green; She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.
She 'll find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor; Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never gar
den more ; But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush
that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
SHE was a phantom of delight
I saw her upon nearer view,
And now I see, with eye serene,
THE LOST PLEIAD. - Mrs. Hemans.
AND is there glory from the heavens departed ? O void unmarked ! — thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high, Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
Though thou art exiled thence;
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning, -
And from the silvery sea
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee.
Swept by the wind away?
And was there power to smite them with decay?
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
When, from its height afar,
Shines not the less for that one vanished star!
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
Wails manhood in glory;
* Funeral song.
The autumn winds, rushing,
Waft the leaves that are serest,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corei,*
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and forever !
THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. - Mrs. Southey.
TREAD softly, - bow the head, -
In reverent silence bow,
Is passing now.
Stranger ! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
* The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.