صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني



If sinless angels love as we,

Who stood thy grave beside,
Three seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride!

I wander'd to thy buried mound,
When earth was hid, below
The level of the glaring ground,
Choked to its gates with snow,
And when with summer's flowery waves
The lake of verdure roll'd,

As if a sultan's white-robed slaves
Had scatter'd pearls and gold.

Nay, the soft pinions of the air,
That lifts this trembling tone,
Its breath of love may almost bear,
To kiss thy funeral stone;
And, now thy smiles have pass'd away,
For all the joy they gave,

May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!

When damps beneath, and storms above,
Have bow'd those fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust grove
Shall swing its orient flowers;
And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If e'er this humble line,

Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust,
Might call a tear on mine.



WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise
And bustle of the crowd, I feel rebuke,
I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys,
And sit me down beside this little brook:
The waters have a music to mine ear
It glads me much to hear.

It is a quiet glen as you may see,

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees,
That spread their giant branches, broad and free,
The silent growth of many centuries;
And make a hallow'd time for hapless moods,
A Sabbath of the woods.

Few know its quiet shelter,-none, like me,
Do seek it out with such a fond desire,
Poring, in idlesse mood, on flower and tree,
And listening, as the voiceless leaves respire,-
When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering,
Rests here his weary wing.

And all the day, with fancies ever new,

And sweet companions from their boundless store Of merry elves, bespangled all with dew,

Fantastic creatures of the old time lore,—
Watching their wild but unobtrusive play,
I fling the hours away.



A gracious couch,-the root of an old oak,
Whose branches yield it moss and canopy,—
Is mine-and so it be from woodman's stroke
Secure, shall never be resign'd by me;

It hangs above the stream that idly plies,
Heedless of any eyes.

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent,

Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, While every sense, on earnest mission sent,

Returns, thought-laden, back with bloom and flower, Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, A profitable toil.

And still the waters, trickling at my feet,

Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,— Yet not so rudely as to send one sound Through the thick copse around.

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest

Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, press'd On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,— And, with awaken'd vision upward bent, I watch the firmament.

How like its sure and undisturb'd retreat,
Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm-
To the pure waters trickling at my feet,

The bending trees that overshade my form;
So far as sweetest things of earth may seem
Like those of which we dream.


Thus, to my mind, is the philosophy

The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight,
Sails far into the blue that spreads on high,
Until I lose him from my straining sight, -
With a most lofty discontent, to fly
Upward, from earth to sky.

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How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,

When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven?
In meadows framed by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfetter'd mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that join'd us here;

The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?



A happier lot than mine, and larger light,

Await thee there; for thou hast bow'd thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,

Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath hath left its scar-that fire of hell
Hath left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?
Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learn'd so ill in this-
The wisdom which is love-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?



O! FOR One draught of those sweet waters now
That shed such freshness o'er my early life!

O! that I could but bathe my fever'd brow

To wash away the dust of worldly strife!

And be a simple-hearted child once more, As if I ne'er had known this world's pernicious lore!

My heart is weary, and my spirit pants

Beneath the heat and burden of the day; Would that I could regain those shady haunts,

Where once, with Hope, I dream'd the hours away, Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance,

And yielding up my soul to youth's delicious trance!

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