DEATH-BED WATCHINGS. This has been sent to us by a correspondent as from the pen of Mrs. EMILY JUDSON. SLEEP, love, sleep! The dusky day is done. Lo! from afar the freshening breezes sweep Wide over groves of balm, Down from the towering palm, In at the open casement cooling run, And round thy lowly bed, Thy bed of pain, Bathing thy patient head, Like grateful showers of rain They come; While the white curtains, waving to and fro, Fan the sick air; And pityingly the shadows come and go, With gentle human care, Compassionate and dumb. The dusky day is gone, The night begun; While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep! Is there no magic in the touch Of fingers thou dost love so much? Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now, Or, with a soft caress, The tremulous lip its own nepenthe press, Upon the weary lid and aching brow. While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep! On the pagoda spire The bells are swinging Their little golden circles, in a flutter With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter, Till all are ringing, As if a choir Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing; The music floats around, And drops like balm into the drowsy ear, Of the Sepoy's distant drum, And lazy beetle ever droning near; The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes, At such strange quiet after day's harsh din ; And looks about, And with his hollow feet Treads his small evening beat, Darting upon his prey In such a tricksy, winsome sort of way, But noiselessly; The bells a melancholy murmur ring, As tears were in the sky; More heavily the shadows fall, Like the black foldings of a pall, Where juts the roof-beam from the wall; The candles flare With fresher gusts of air; The beetle's drone Turns to a dirge-like solitary moan; Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone. THE EVENING WIND. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT was born in 1794, at Cummington, in Massachusetts U. S. His father was a physician of eminence. He displayed a precocious taste for poetry, his first volume being published when he was of the age of thirteen. In 1810, he entered William's College and distinguished himself by his proficiency in languages. Having completed his education, he became a law-student and was admitted to the Bar in 1815. He removed to New York in 1825. "The Ages" and other poems, among which were most of his finest compositions, were published in 1821, and immediately made him famous, not only in his own country but in Europe. Soon after his arrival in New York, he became the Editor of The New York Monthly Review, in which many of his poems made their first appearance. In 1826 he undertook the Editorship of The Evening Post, a political paper, which he has continued to conduct to this time. He visited England in 1834, and thence travelled through Europe, returning to New York in 1836, and there he still resides. The following is one of his most beautiful compositions. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, Nor 1 alone-a thousand bosoms round Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse Summoning from the innumerable boughs The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep: And they who stand about the sick man's bed Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, TO MARY. By SHELLEY-the Dedication prefixed to The Revolt of Islam. So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart's home; With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light. The toil which stole from thee so many an hour Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass. I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was When I walked forth upon the glittering grass, Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone Which crush'd and wither'd mine, that could not be Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee. Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart No more alone through the world's wilderness, And cherish'd friends turn with the multitude Now has descended a serener hour, And with inconstant fortune, friends return; Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power Which says:-Let scorn be not repaid with scorn. And from thy side two gentle babes are born To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn: And these delights, and thou, have been to me The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee. |