I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there,
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair,-
All scattered-all sundered by mountain and wave,
And some in the silent embrace of the grave!
I thought of the green banks, that circled around,
With wild-flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine crowned
I thought of the river, all quiet and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night:
And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed,
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade;
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind.
All eager, I hastened the scene to behold,
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old;
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore.
'Twas a dream!-not a token or trace could 1 view
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew:
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day,
"Like a tale that is told"-they had vanished away.
And methought the lone river, that murmured along,
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song,
Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above,
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove.
I paused:-and the moral came home to my heart :-
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart!
Our visions are baseless, our hopes but a gleam,—
Our staff but a reed,—and our life but a dream.
Then, O, let us look-let our prospects allure-
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure,
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime
O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruins of Time.
The Little Graves.-ANONYMOUS.
"TWAS autumn, and the leaves were dry And rustled on the ground,
And chilly winds went whistling by,
With low and pensive sound.
As through the grave-yard's lone retreat
By meditation led,
I walked, with slow and cautious feet,
Above the sleeping dead,—
Three little graves, ranged side by side,
My close attention drew;
O'er two, the tall grass, bending, sighed,
And one seemed fresh and new.
As, lingering there, I mused awhile
On death's long, dreamless sleep,
And opening life's deceitful smile,
A mourner came to weep.
Her form was bowed, but not with years,
Her words were faint and few,
And on those little graves her tears
Distilled like evening dew.
A prattling boy, some four years old,
Her trembling hand embraced,
And from my heart the tale he told
Will never be effaced.
"Mămma,* now you must love me more
For little sister's dead;
And t'other sister died before,
And brother too, you said.
'Mamma, what made sweet sister die?
She loved me when we played:
You told me, if I would not cry,
You'd show me where she's laid."
"Tis here, my child, that sister lies
Deep buried in the ground:
No light comes to her little eyes,
And she can hear no sound.”
'Mamma, why can't we take her up,
And put her in my bed?
I'll feed her from my little cup,
And then she won't be dead.
'For sister'll be afraid to lie
In this dark grave to-night,
And she'll be very cold, and cry,
Because there is no light."
No, sister is not cold, my child;
For God, who saw her die,
As he looked down from heaven and smiled
Recalled her to the sky.
"And then her spirit quickly fled
To God, by whom 'twas given,
Her body in the ground is dead,
But sister lives in heaven."
"Mamma, won't she be hungry there
And want some bread to eat?
And who will give her clothes to wear
And keep them clean and neat?
"Păpa' must go and carry some;
I'll send her all I've got;
And he must bring sweet sister home
Mamma, now must he not ?"
Life and Death.-NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
O FEAR not thou to die!
But rather fear to live; for life Has thousand snares thy feet to try, By peril, pain, and strife.
Brief is the work of death;
But life!-the spirit shrinks to see How full, ere heaven recalls the breath, The cup of wo may be.
O fear not thou to die!
No more to suffer or to sin;
No snares without, thy faith to try,
No traitor heart within:
But fear, O! rather fear,
The gay, the light, the changeful scene The flattering smiles that greet thee here, From heaven thy heart to wean.
Fear, lest, in evil hour,—
Thy pure and holy hope o'ercome,
By clouds that in the horizon lower,-
Thy spirit feel that gloom,
Which, over earth and heaven,
The covering throws of fell despair;
And deems itself the unforgiven,
Predestined child of care.
O fear not thou to die!
To die, and be that blessed one, Who, in the bright and beauteous sky, May feel his conflict done
May feel that, never more,
The tear of grief or shame shall come, For thousand wanderings from the Power Who loved, and called him home!
The Burial of Arnold.*-N. P. WILLIS
YE'VE gathered to your place of prayer,
With slow and measured tread:
Your ranks are full, your mates all there-
But the soul of one has fled.
He was the proudest in his strength,
The manliest of ye all;
Why lies he at that fearful length,
And ye around his pall?
Ye reckon it in days, since he
Strode up that foot-worn aisle,
With his dark eye flashing gloriously,
And his lip wreathed with a smile.
O, had it been but told you then,
To mark whose lamp was dim,
From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men,
Would ye have singled him?
Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung
Defiance to the ring?
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung,
Yet not for glorying?
Whose heart, in generous deed and thought
No rivalry might brook,
And yet distinction claiming not?
There lies he-go and look!
On now-his requiem is done,
The last deep prayer is said—
On to his burial, comrades-on,
With the noblest of the dead!
Slow-for it presses heavily-
It is a man ye bear!
Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily
On the noble sleeper there.
Tread lightly, comrades!-we have laid
His dark locks on his brow-
A member of the senior class in Yale College.
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