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76

THE DEPARTED.

As withered and as lost as they
Beneath the parent roof we meet
In joyous groups, and gaily greet
The golden beams of love and light,
That kindle to the youthful sight.
But soon we part, and one by one,
Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone.
One gentle spirit seeks the tomb,
His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom.
Another treads the paths of fame,
And barters peace to win a name.
Another still tempts fortune's wave,
And seeking wealth, secures a grave.
The last grasps yet the brittle thread-
Though friends are gone and joy is dead,
Still dares the dark and fretful tide,
And clutches at its power and pride,
Till suddenly the waters sever,
And like the leaf he sinks forever.

THE DEPARTED.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

THE departed! the departed!

They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories,
Like shadows over streams;-

But where the cheerful lights of home

THE DEPARTED.

In constant lustre burn, The departed-the departed

Can never more return!

The good, the brave, the beautiful!
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep,—
Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale Winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone-
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown.

I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees;

For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think Earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of Summer waves,

The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me,
As their remembered words.

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I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles

Still on me sweetly fall!

Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel plumage on;
But my heart is very desolate,
To think that they are gone.

The departed!-the departed!
They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories,
Like shadows over streams,

But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,
The departed-the departed
Can never more return!

DEATH.

BY W. O. B. PEABODY.

LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold,
And let the evening sunlight in;
I would not that my heart grow cold,
Before its better years begin!

'Tis well, at such an early hour

So calm and pure-a sinking ray

DEATH.

Should shine into the heart, with power
To drive its darker thoughts away.

The bright, young thoughts of early days
Shall gather in my memory now,
And not the later cares, whose trace

Is stamped so deeply on my brow;
"What though those days return no more!
The sweet remembrance is not vain-

For Heaven is waiting to restore
The childhood of my soul again.

Let no impatient mourner stand
In hollow sadness near my bed-
But let me rest upon the hand,

And let me hear that gentle tread
Of her whose kindness long ago,

And still unworn away by years, Has made my weary eye-lids flow With grateful and admiring tears!

I go-but let no plaintive tone

The moment's grief of friendship tell;
And let no proud and graven stone
Say where the weary slumbers well;
A few short hours-and then for Heaven!
Let sorrow all its tears dismiss-

For who would mourn the warning given,
Which calls us from a world like this!

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80

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

THE pilgrim fathers—where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore:

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the May-Flower moored below,

When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow white sail, that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;

As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The pilgrim exile-sainted name !—
The hill, whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,

In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night

On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;

But the pilgrim-where is he?

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