Thou art gone to the grave-and, its mansion forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim’s song. Thou art gone to the grave-but 'twere wrong to deplore thee, When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. 66 BISHOP REGinald Heber. THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. HEN hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close concealed, We shrink lest looks or words impart What must not be revealed. 'Tis hard to smile when one would weep; To speak when one should silent be; To wake when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony. Yet such the lot by thousands cast Who wander in this world of care, But nature waits her guests to greet, MRS. HUNTer. THE LITTLE GRAVE. T'S only a little grave," they said, From the mound the spade had made that day. I know the coffin was narrow and small, I knew that a mother had stood that day With folded hands by that form of clay; I know that burning tears were hid, "'Neath the drooping lash and aching lid;" And I knew her lip, and cheek, and brow, I knew that some things were hid away, 'Tis a little grave, but O, beware! B THE WIDOWED MOTHER. ESIDE the babe, who sweetly slept, Well might that lullaby be sad, On this cold-hearted earth: Steadfastly as a star doth look While thus she sat-a sunbeam broke With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms, And to her bosom leapt All tears at once were swept away, And said a face as bright as day"Forgive me that I wept !" Sufferings there are from nature sprung, Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue May venture to declare; But this as Holy Writ is sure, "The griefs she bids us here endure Can she herself repair!" JOHN WILSON. HE salt wind blows upon my cheek, As it blew a year ago, When twenty boats were crushed among 'T was dark then; 'tis light now, And the sails are leaning low. In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er, And hope another tide will be My life goes on as life must go, With all its sweetness spilled; My God, why should one heart of two Thy happy sparrows build. Though boats go down, men build again, If blight be in the wheat one year, The grief comes, the change comes, The tides run high and low. Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm, The summers bloom and go; The sea withholds my dead; I walk The bar when tides are low, And wonder how the grave-grass Can have the heart to grow. Flow on, O unconsenting sea, And keep my dead below: The night-watch set for me is long, But, through it all, I know, Or life comes, or death comes, God leads the eternal flow. HIRAM RICH, MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. Gilbert Burns, the brother of the poet, says: "He (Burns) used to remark to me that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man was made to mourn, was composed." HEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man, whose aged step "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?" "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn "The sun that overhangs yon moors, A haughty lordling's pride- That man was made to mourn. Which ten-fold force gives nature's law, "Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, "A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; But, oh, what crowds in every land Makes countless thousands mourn! "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- If not, why am I subject to His cruelty an scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn? "Yet let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressed, yet honest man "O death! the poor man's dearest friend, The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, ROBERT BURNS. THE CLOSING SCENE. e following is pronounced by the Westminster Review to be unquestionably the finest American poem ever written. ITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, His winter log with many a muffled blow. On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight, Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before- His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young : And where the oriole hung her swaying nest By every light wind like a censer swung ; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves. The busy swallows circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast All now were songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew, And struck for liberty the dying blow; Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, At last the thread was snapped--her head was bowed; Life drooped the distaff through his hands serene ; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud— While death and winter closed the autumn scene. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. ULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, For the old year lies a-dying. He lieth still: he doth not move; He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; Old year, you shall not die : We did so laugh and cry with you, He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands before you die, Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: His face is growing sharp and thin. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, ALFRED TENNYSON. ONLY THE CLOTHES SHE WORE. 'HERE is the hat With the blue veil thrown 'round it, just as they found it, Spotted aud soiled, stained and all spoiledDo you recognize that? The gloves, too, lie there, And in them still lingers the shape of her fingers, That some one has pressed, perhaps, and caressed, So slender and fair. There are the shoes, With their long silken laces, still bearing traces, To the toe's dainty tip, of the mud of the slip, The slime and the ooze. There is the dress, Like the blue veil, all dabbled, discolored and drab bled This you should know without doubt, and, if so, All else you may guess. There is the shawl, With the striped border, hung next in order, Soiled hardly less than the white muslin dress. And that is all. Ah, here is a ring We were forgetting, with a pearl setting; There was only this one-name or date?-none?A frail, pretty thing; A keepsake, maybe, The gift of another, perhaps a brother, Or lover, who knows? him her heart chose, Or was she heart-free? Does the hat there, He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door, Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creep ing on the floor; Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and hark With the blue veil around it, the same as they found it, "It is growing very dark, mother-very, very dark.” Summon up a fair face with just a trace Of gold in the hair? There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly heads were bowed, Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud; They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay, To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say; And a change came o'er the features where death had set his mark "It is growing very dark, mother-very, very dark." Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales, Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that never fails; He was dreaming of his mother-that her loving hand was pressed On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to rest; That her lips were now imprinting a fond kiss upon his cheek, And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and meek; Her gentle form was near him, her footsteps he could mark But "It's growing very dark, mother-very, very dark." And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with patriot light, Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of night; Ah, poor soldier! ah, fond mother! you are severed now for aye; Cold and pulseless, there he lieth, where he breathed his life away; Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one heavenly spark? Ah! it has grown dark, mother—very, very dark. B THE BLESSING OF ADVERSITY. Y adversity are wrought The greatest works of admiration, VICTORY FROM DEFEAT. IKE a ball that bounds According to the force with which 't was thrown, THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. ARK is the night. How dark! No light! No fire! Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks ex- Shivering she watches by the cradle side, gone! |