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Oh, ye who guard and grace my home,
I ask in vain-and know far less
TO A WATER-FOWL.
Whither 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
On the chafed ocean side ?
There is a Power whose care
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'st gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart, Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
THE SPANISH CHAPEL.
I made a mountain-brook my guide,
Through a wild Spanish glen,
Far from the homes of men.
It lured me with a singing tone,
And many a sunny glance, To a green spot of beauty lone,
A haunt for old romance.
A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove
Of many an aged tree,
The fawn and forest-bee.
The darkness of the chesnut bough
There on the waters lay,
Check'd its exulting play ;
And bore a music all subdued,
And led a silvery sheen,
Of that rich leafy scene.
For something viewlessly around
Of solemn influence dwelt, In the soft gloom, and whispery sound,
Not to be told but felt.
While sending forth a quiet gleam
Across the wood's repose,
A Jowly chapel rose.
A pathway to that still retreat
Through many a myrtle wound,
And there a sight-how strangely sweet!
My steps in wonder bound.
For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
E'en at the threshold made,
A young fair child was laid.
To sleep ?--oh! ne'er on childhood's eye,
Aud silken lashes press'd,
With such a weight of rest !
Yet still a tender crimson glow
Its cheek's pure marble dyed'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow
Through roses heap'd beside.
I stoop'd—the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lips' breath was filed,
The lovely child was dead !
" Alas!" I cried, “fair faded thing!
Thou hast wrung bitter tears, And thou hast left a woe to cling
Round yearning hearts for years
But then a voice came sweet and low
I turn'd, and near me sate,
Pale, yet not desolate.
And in her still clear, matron face,
All solemnly serene,
Of the young slumberer's mien.
“Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said,
With lips that faintly smild, “ As here I watch beside my dead,
My fair and precious child.
“But know the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven, Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
An angel thus to heaven !"
COME again ! come again !