THE ANNIVERSARY OF DEATH.

MRS. JAMES GRAY.

WE keep an anniversary to-day

But not as those who mark with festal mirth

The victories of ages pass'd away,

Or sweet home-time of marriage or of birthWe wear the mourner's robes, we hush our breath : Ours is an anniversary of death!

Oh, how this day recalls the bitter past!

This summer day, our loved one's last of life; And this deep midnight hour, the very last

Wherein she slumber'd from the final strife; Even now the death-damp crept o'er every limb, Even now her gentle eye grew glazed and dim.

Methinks I see her yet-that fairest creature-
Panting her very life in fever forth;

I see her yet, with every lovely feature,
Bearing the prophecy, of "earth to earth :"
Yet with her soft, deep-loving eyes, whose meekness
Look'd gratefully around through all her weakness.

I see her yet, as on her death bed laid,
Her face all still, yet mutely eloquent-
A solemn twilight, that was scarce a shade,

Show'd on her brow, the fulness of contentThe small, white, drooping hand, the braided hair, The stirless lip, the cheek so calmly fair.

One year ago, this night, my hands for her

Perform'd the last sad offices of love;

Still, 'midst my task, I dream'd her pulse must stir, My straining eyes saw those dark tresses move! But the white morning broke upon thy brow, Beloved and lovely one, and what wast thou?

A rigid corpse

e-a marble image changed

From slumber's likeness to a sculptured form,A something sadly from our dreams estranged,

That look'd as though with life 'twas never warm, That seem'd our hearts instinctively to draw, Yet thrill'd them with a deep, mysterious awe.

Sweet one, thou liest in thy lowly tomb,

We ask not of thy mortal relics now,

They perish'd like the wild flower's summer bloom; Yet are they garner'd as the seed we sow,

From whose corruption God's great power shall bring An incorruptible and holy thing!

Said I that we should mourn? The thought I call
Back to my heart-we keep no mournful day —

Let there be high and solemn festival,

As for the saints of old, who pass'd away; The church of God marks each returning year With joyful reverence and hopeful cheer.

We celebrate a victory,-o'er the earth,

Its tribulation, its decay, its sighsWe celebrate a glorious day of birth,

An entrance on a life that never dies

We keep a marriage-feast-her darksome tomb Is but a passage to the Bridegroom's home.

THE DREAMS OF OLD.

MRS. JAMES GRAY.

THE dreams of old are faded,

Their wondrous spells are o'er;

We cannot be persuaded

To try their power once more.
Our wisdom now is scorning

What our fathers deem'd a boon ;

The world's bright clouds of morning

Have melted in her noon.

Yet, for the parted glory

They shed on mortal mould,

Think gently of the phantasy

That framed the dreams of old.

Where are the fairy legions

That peopled vale and grove,
And overspread earth's regions
With strange ethereal love?

The flowers their essence haunted
Are blooming gaily still,
But June hath disenchanted

The meadow and the rill.
There's not a child who listens,

When their magic tale is told,

Who does not know they were but dreams,
Those radiant dreams of old.

Where is the high aspiring
That the star-watcher knew,
Born of the pure desiring

For the holy and the true?
The faith, that never halted
Heaven's starry page to read,
And framed a dream, exalted
Unto a prophet's creed.
Who now would seek the planets,

The future to unfold,

Who, as the grave astrologer,

Revive the dreams of old?

Where is the kindred spirit,
With weary endless guest,
Still hoping to inherit

Earth's riches, and be blest?
No more beside his furnace

The alchemist may bend-
No more, in lonely sternness,
His secret labours tend.
We have a bolder wisdom
To multiply our gold,

An open craft to supersede

That strongest dream of old.

So pass the dream of ages,

And leave but little trace, Visions of bards and sages, New wisdom can efface; Dreams, that have won the fearful To hope for better days; Dreams, that have fill'd the cheerful With terror and amaze! All pass-doth nothing linger With deathless things enroll'd, That shall not perish and depart, Amidst the dreams of old?

Yes-what upheld the martyr
Amidst the final strife,
When he refused to barter
This holy faith for life?
What cheer'd the pilgrim strangers
To lofty thought and deed,
To sow, 'midst death and dangers,

The gospel's sacred seed?

They hoped the world's wide nations Its fruit should yet behold,

And was their glorious faith a dream, A fading dream of old?

No-by the babe's devotion
Lisp'd at his mother's knee,

And by her deep emotion

Its early trust to see;
And by the bond of union,
The faithful here may prove,

D