THE PAST.

THOU unrelenting Past!

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast,

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn,

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,

And last, Man's Life on earth,
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind, Yielded to thee with tears,

The venerable form, the exalted mind.

And struggles hard to wring

Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain thy gates deny

All passage save to those who hence depart;
Nor to the streaming eye

Thou giv'st them back, nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide

Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee
Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;

Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith; Love, that midst grief began,

And

grew with years, and faltered not in death

Full many a mighty name

Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;
With thee are silent fame,
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.

Thine for a space are they:
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last
Thy gates shall yet give way,

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

The Past.

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Has

All that of good and fair

gone into thy womb from earliest time,
Shall then come forth to wear

The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perished; no!

Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago,

And features, the great soul's apparent seat,

All shall come back: each tie

Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall Evil die,

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold

Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her, who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave, — the beautiful and young.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more.

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life.

Footsteps of Angels.

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more.

And with them the being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love mc,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saintlike, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

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