Thou, who so late wast sleeping for man! Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms, Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, A bank where I have lain in summer hours! And thought how little it would seem like death To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone; The birds are never silent that build here, Trying to sing down the more vocal waters: The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, And far below, seen under arching leaves, Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, Pointing the living after thec. And this seems like a comfort; and, replacing now To whisper the same peace to her who lies — Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot. that, once struck, must flow foreverWill hide and waste in silence. When the smile Steals to her pallid lip again, and Spring Wakens its buds above thee, we will come, And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, Look on each other cheerfully, and say: A child that we have loved is gone to heaven, And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away! FILIAL LOVE. MOTHER! dear mother! the feeling nurst As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain; 'Tis the only one that will long remain; And as, year by year, and day by day, How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer thee! NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. THE ANNOYER. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever.-SHELLEY. LOVE knoweth every form of air, He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears and the many men He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And he'll float to his eye in morning light He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, The cloud and the open sky He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye. The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, And ponders the silver sea, For love is under the surface hid, And a spell of thought has he. He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, He blurs the print of the scholar's book, In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In every home of human thought, Will Love be lurking nigh. PARRHASIUS. How like a mounting devil in the heart 'BRING me the captive now ! Upon the bended heavens around me play 'Ha! bind him on his back! Look! Quick Now as Prometheus in my picture here! or he faints! - stand with the cordial near! bend him to the rack! Press down the poison'd links into his flesh! • So let him writhe! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! |