PHANTOMS.

ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passage they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,

A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall

Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear:

He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands.

And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense,
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise

By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

The perturbations, the perpetual jar

Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of that unseen starThat undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon, from some dark gate of cloud, Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling plank our fancies crowd, Into the realms of mystery and night,

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Under our thoughts above the dark abyss.

RESIGNATION.

THERE is no flock however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly thro' the mists and vapors;

Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funeral tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portals we call Death.

She is not dead,· the child of our affection,

But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year her tender steps pursuing
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion.
And anguish long suppress'd,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,-

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling,

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have sway.

A PASSING THOUGHT.

O WHAT a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

To his long resting-place without a tear.