Oh! not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day:
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor-wall,-

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door:
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life.

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly!
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer;
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh! though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside

If I but remember only,

Such as these have lived and died.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I HAVE read, in some old, marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of specters pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen;
And with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace:
The mist-like banners clasped the air
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral-bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmèd air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled :

Up rose the glorious morning-star;
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvelous heart of man, – That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the liuman soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen;
And with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there
In the army of the
grave;

No other challenge breaks the air
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled: Faith shineth as a morning-star; Our ghastly fears are dead.

MAIDENHOOD.

MAIDEN with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies

Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,-
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!

Standing with reluctant feet

Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing with a timid glance

On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household-fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone;
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"Excelsior!"