e sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, ankling in the pest-house now, _nd ne'er will feel that sun again! doh! to see th' unburied heaps

which the lonely midnight sleeps

= very vultures turn away,

I sicken at so foul a prey!

y the fiercer hyæna stalks oughout the city's desolate walks midnight, and his carnage pliesFoe to the half-dead wretch, who meets glaring of those large blue eyes mid the darkness of the streets!

or race of Men!" said the pitying Spirit,
Dearly ye pay for your primal fall—
e flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,

ut the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"
wept-the air grew pure and clear
round her, as the bright drops ran;
there's a magic in each tear,

kindly spirits weep for man! then, beneath some orange-trees, Ose fruit and blossoms in the breeze

e wantoning together, free, - age at play with infancy

eath that fresh and springing bower,
ose by the lake, she heard the moan
ne who, at this silent hour,
thither stolen to die alone.

who in life, where'er he moved, -ew after him the hearts of many; now, as though he ne'er were loved, es here, unseen, unwept by any! e to watch near him-none to slake

e fire that in his bosom lies, ■e'en a sprinkle from that lake, hich shines so cool before his eyes. oice, will know through many a day, speak the last, the parting word, ch, when all other sounds decay, still like distant music heard. tender farewell on the shore is rude world, when all is o'er, ch cheers the spirit, ere its bark off into the unknown dark.

rted youth! one thought alone
ed joy around his soul in death-
she, whom he for years had known,
loved, and might have call'd his own,

as safe from this foul midnight's breath;—

in her father's princely halls,
re the cool airs from fountain falls,
ly perfumed by many a brand

he sweet wood from India's land,

e pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see, who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she-far off through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!

Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.

"Oh! let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air, that's breathed by thee,

And, whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
There-drink my tears, while yet they fall,—
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face-

Am I not thine-thy own loved bride-
The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side!
Think'st thou that she, whose only light,

In this dim world, from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

That must be hers, when thou art gone?

That I can live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself?-No, no-
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too!
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before like thee I fade and burn;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there!"
She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes!
One struggle and his pain is past—
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss this maiden gives, one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

THANATOPSIS.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

To him who in the love of nature holds,
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-
Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Or morning-and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest-and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living-and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom: yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their enjoyments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to the dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

TO A WATERFOWL

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

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
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,—

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
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 shal' Send,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt 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.

SONNET-MIDSUMMER.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

A power is on the earth and in the air,

From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth-her thousand plants Are smitten, even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown;

The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, The trout floats dead in the hot stream and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town; As if the Day of Fire had dawned and sent Its deadly breath into the firmanent.

JOHN GIL PIN,

WM. COWPER.

John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A train band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear:
'Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
'To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair

Unto the Bell at Edmonton

All in a chaise and pair.

•My sister, and my sister's child,

Myself and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we.'

He soon replied: 'I do admire
Of womankind but one,

And you are she, my dearest dear;
Therefore it shall be done.

'I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go.'

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin: That's well said;
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.'

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, 'round went the wheels,
Were never folks so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind,

When Betty screaming came down-stairs: 'The wine is left behind!'

'Good lack!' quoth he- yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.'

Now Mrs. Gilpin-careful soul!-
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones
With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.

So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a galop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must

Who cannot stoop upright,

He grasps the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.

His horse, which never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out,
Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;

A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
Up flew the windows all;

And every soul cried out: 'Well done!'
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin-who but he?

His fame soon spread around;
He carries weight! he rides a race!
'Tis for a thousand pound!
And still, as fast as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike-men
Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,

Most piteous to be seen,

Which made his horse's flanks to smoke,

As they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight,

With leathern girdle braced;

For all might see the bottle necks

Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the wash

Of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the wash about

On both sides of the way,

Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton, his loving wife

From the balcony spied

Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.

'Stop, stop, John Gilpin-Here's the housel They all at once did cry;

"The dinner waits, and we are tired!

Said Gilpin: 'So am I!'

But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why?-his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend's the calender's
His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see

His neighbor in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:

'What news? what news? your tidings tell;
Tell me you must and shall—

Say, why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?'
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender

In merry guise he spoke:

'I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here

They are upon the road.'

The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,

But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig,

A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,

Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn
Thus shewed his ready wit:
'My head is twice as big as yours,

They therefore need must fit.
'But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.'

Said John: 'It is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I soould dine at Ware.

So turning to his horse, he said:
'I am in haste to dine;

"Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.'