He drops his cup; his lips are stiff with fright. "I cannot sit. I needs must go : O, who so weak as thou, Strong man?-His hoofs upon the door-stone, see, The shadow stands ?-His eyes are on thee, Lee!— Thy hair pricks up !" O, I must bear Thou'rt mad to mount that horse!" A power within, He's now astride the spectre's back, Nor doth he touch the shade he strides, upborne He goes with speed; he goes with dread! They'll make the horrid leap! The horse stops short:-his feet are on the verge. And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, Through that cold light the fearful man And yet he does not speak, or make a sound! What see you, Lee, the bodies of the drowned? "I look-where mortal man may not- I see the dead, long, long forgot; I see them in their sleep. A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, Save he who leagues his soul with death and wo." Thou mild, sad mother, waning moon Shines towards him.-Quit him not so soon! Despair and death are with him; and canst thou, O, thou wast born for things of love; In that soft light of thine, Hosts above, Burn softer:-earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven.- The far, low west is bright no more Thou living thing, and dar'st thou come so near Now long that thick, red light has shone But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns: The spectre-steed now slowly pales; The morning air blows fresh on him ;* The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim— He doth not hear that joyous call; he sees For he's accurst from all that's good; Thou stranger to earth's beauty-human love- The Death of the Flowers.-Bryant. THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead: They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. The Skies.-BRYANT. Ay, gloriously thou standest there, Far, far below thee, tall gray trees And hills, whose ancient summits freeze In the fierce light and cold. The eagle soars his utmost height; Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. Thou hast thy frowns: with thee, on high, His stores of hail and sleet: Thence the consuming lightnings break; Yet art thou prodigal of smiles Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern: The glory that comes down from thee The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, The pomp that brings and shuts the day, Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there The sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, I only know how fair they stand And they are fair: a charm is theirs, That earth-the proud, green earth-has not, We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, Oh! when, amid the throng of men, And look into thy azure breast, For seats of innocence and rest! From "The Minstrel Girl."-JAMES G. WHITTIER. HER lover died. Away from her, With death; but not from selfish fear: Which made existence doubly dear. |