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That dipped their pitchers in that spring, And lingered round its brink.

On—on—through woeful images
My spirit holds her way!
Death in each drooping flower she sees:
And oft the momentary breeze
la tinging of decay.
—So high upon the slender bough
Why hangs the crow her nest?
AU undisturbed her young ho\ c Iain
This spring-time in their nest;
Nor as they flew on tender wing
E'er fear'd the cross-bow or the sling.
Tame as the purpling turtle-dove,
That walks serene in human love,
The magpie hops from door to door;
And the hare, not fearing to be seen,
Doth gambol'on the village-green'

As on the lonely moor.
The few sheep wandering by the brook
Haie all a dim neglected look,
Oft bleating in their dumb distress
On her their sweet dead shepherdess.
The horses pasturing through the range
Of gateless fields, all common now,
Free from the yoke enjoy the change,
To them a long long sabbath-sleep!
Then gathering; in one thunderous band,
Across the wild they sweep,
Tossing the long hair from their eyes—
Till far the living whirlwind flies
As o'er the desert sand.
From human let their course is free;—
No lonely angler down the lea i

Invites the zephyr's breath—
And the beggar far away doth roam,
Preferring in his hovel-home
His penury to death.
On that green hedge a scattered row
Now weather-stained—once white as snow—
Of garments that have long been spread,
And now belong unto the dead,
Shrond-likc proclaim to every eye,
''This is no place for charity!"

0 blest are ye! unthinking creatures! Rtjoicing in your lowly natures Vr dance round human tombs! Where gladlicr sings the mountain-lark Than o'er the church-yard dim and dark! Or where, than on the church-yard-wull, From the wild rose-tree brighter fall Her transitory blooms! "hat is it to that lovely sky "all her worshippers should die! As happily her splendours play On the grave where human forms decay, k o'er the dewy turf of Morn, * here the virgin, like a woodland Fay 0« wings of joy was borne. —Even now a soft and silvery haze Hill—Village—Tree—is steeping In the loveliness of happier days.

Ere rose the voice of weeping!
When incense-fires from every hearth
To heaven stole beautiful from earth.

Sweet Spire! that crownst the house of God! To thee my spirit turns, While through a cloud the softened light On thy yellow dial burns. Ah, me! my bosom inly bleeds To see the deep-worn path that leads Unto that open gate! In silent blackness it doth tell How oft thy little sullen bell Hath o'er the village toll'd its knell. In beauty desolate. Oft, wandering by myself at night, Such spire huth risen in softened light Before my gladdened eyes,— And as I looked around to see The village sleeping quietly Beneath the quiet skies,— Methought that 'mid her stars so bright, The moon in placid mirth, Was not in henven a holier sight Than God's house on the earth. Sweet image! transient in my soul! That very bell hnth ceased to toll When the grave receives its dead— And the last time it slowly swung, 'Twas by a dying stripling rung O'er the sexton's hoary head! All silent now from cot or hall Comes forth the sable funeral! The Pastor is not there! For yon sweet Manse now empty stands, Nor in its walls will holier hands Be e'er held up in prayer.



O Hitsh'd be our souls as this Burial-ground!
And let our feet without a sound
Glide o'er the mournful clay;
For lo! two radiant Creatures flitting
O'er the grave-stones! now moveless sitting
On a low funeral mound! 'Tis day!
And, but that ghosts where'er they rove
Do in their breathless beauty love
The cold, the ,wan, and the silent light
O'er the Church-yard shed by the Queen

of Night,
Sure Sister-Shades were They!
—Of many 'tis the holy faith,
Ere from the dying frame
Departs the latest lingering breath,
Its earthly garb the same,
A shadowy Likeness still doth come,
A noiseless, pale-faced, beckoning Wraith
To cull the stranger home!

Or, are ye Angels? who from blisa.

With dewy fall, unto our earth

On wings of Paradise descend.

The grave of Innocence to kiss,

And tears of an immortal birth

With human tears to blend!

Aye! there they sit! like earthly Creatures

With softer, gadder, fainter features!

A Halo round each head;

Fair Things whose earthly course is o'er,

And who bring from some far-distant shore

The beauty that on earth they wore,

With the silence of the dead.

The dream of Ghost and Angel fades, And I gaze upon two Orphan-Maids, Frail Creatures, doom'd to die! Spirits may be fair in their heavenly sleep, But sure when mortal Heings weep In tears a beauty lies more deep, The glimmering of mortality! Their aged Friend in slumber lies. And hath closed for an hour the only eyes That ever cheered their orphan-state, At the hour of birth left desolate! She sleeps! and now these Maids have come With mournful hearts to this mournful home, Led here by a pensive train Of thoughts still brooding on the dead! For they have watched the breast of pain Till it moved not on its bed. The lifeless lips together prest, And many a ghastly body ft rest, And framed the shroud for the corse of bone That lay unheeded and alune, When all its friends were dead and gone!

So they walk not to yon breezy mountain To sit in the shade of its silvery fountain, And 'mid that lofty air serene Forget the dim and wniling scene That spreads beneath their feet! They walk not down yon fairy-stream Whose liquid lapses sweet Might wrap them in some happy dream Of a pure, calm, far retreat, As on that rivulet seems to flow, Escaping from a world of Wo! But this still realm is their delight. And hither they repair Communion with the dead to hold! Peaceful, as at the fall of night. Two little Lambkins gliding white Bcturn unto the gentle air That sleeps within the fold. Or like two Birds to their lonely nest, Or wearied waves to their bay of rest, Or fleecy clouds, when their race is run, That hang, in their own beauty blest, 'Mid the calm that sanctifies the west Around the setting Sun.

Phantoms! ye waken to mine eye Sweet trains of earthly imagery!

Whate'er on Nature's breast is found

In loveliness without n sound.

That silent seems to soul and sense.

Emblem of perfect Innocence!

Two radiant dew-drops that repose

On mossy bank at evening's close,

And happy in the gentle weather.

In beauty disappear together;

Two flowers upon the lonesome moor,

When a dim day of storm is o'er,

Lifting up their yellow hair

To meet the balm of the slumbering air;

Two sea-birds from the troubled ocean

Floating with a snowy motion,

In the absence of the gale

Over a sweet inland-vale;

Two early-risen stars that lie

Together on the evening-sky,

And imperceptibly pursue

Their walk along the depths of blue.

—Sweet Beigns! on my dreams ye rise

With all your frail humanities!

Nor Earth below, nor Heaven above.

An imnge yields of Peace and Love,

So perfect as your pensive breath

That brings unsought a dream of death!

Each sigh more touching than the last,

Till life's pathetic tune be past!



The grave is fit I'd and the turf is spread

To grow together o'er the dead.

The little daisies bright and fair

Arc looking up scarce injured there.

And one warm night of summer-dew

Will all their wonted smiles renew.

Restoring to its blooming rest

A soft couch for the sky-lark's breast.

The funeral-party, one by one

Have given their blessing and are gone—

Prepnred themselves ere long to die,

A small, sad, silent company.

The orphans robed in spotless white

Yet linger in the holy ground.

And shed all o'er that peaceful mound.

A radiance like the wan moonlight.

—Then from their mother's grat r thry glidr

Out of the chnrch-yard side by side.

Just at the gate they pause and turn —

I hear sad blended voices mourn

Mother, farewell!—the Inst rndcatour

To send their souls hack to the clay.

Then they hide their eyes—and walk away

From her grave—now and for ever!

Not till this parting invocation To their mother's buried breast. Had they felt the power of desolatis Long as she lived the village lay

Calm—nnrepining in decay—

For grief was its own consolation,

And death seem'd only rest.

—But now a dim and sullen breath

Hath chnrarter'd the fate of death;

And tears, and sighs, and sobs, and wailing,

All roond—o'er human joy prevailing—

Or 'mid the pausing fits of woe,

Wild «ilence, like a depth of snow

Shrouding in slumber stern and dull

The spring-fields late so beautiful,

I pon their fainting spirits press

With weight of utter hopelessness,

And drive them off, they heed not where,

So that oblivion's ebbless wave

May lie for ever on one grave,

One village of despair.

Faint with such spectacles of woe Towards their solitary home Across the village-green they go— Ijeing the streamlet's murmuring flow, "here melt away the specks of foam, f'lle human creatures dying Mid their voyage down life's peaceful stream, 'pon the bosom of a dream ,

In thoughtless pleasure lying.
Palm reveries of composing grief!
Whose very sadness yields relief
To heart, and soul, and eye.
The Orphans look around—and lo!
How touching is that Lilac's glow,
Beneath the tall Laburnum's bow
That dazzling spans the sky!
That golden gleam—that gentle fire
Forces even anguish to admire;
And gently cheers away distress
By the power of nature's loveliness.
From many a little garden steal
•Mourn that have been wasting long
A weetness there was none to feel;
And from the hidden flowers a song
Ofliees, in happy multitude
AH hosy in that solitude,
An image brings of all the strife
And gladness of superior life.
Till man seem, 'mid these insects blest,
A hrother-insect hardly raiss'd.

They seize that transient calm; the door '" their own cottage open stands— Far lonelier than one hour before, When they with weak and trembling hands The head of that dear coffin bore Into iu darksome bed! To them far drearier than the tomb, F»* naked silence of the room «*"rted by the dead. They tiu the dim and senseless walls, J»«i hurry fast awny; *"ne sudden thought their feet recals, And trifles urge their stay, T"l with the violence of despair Tl"y rnsh; into the open air,

And bless its thatch and sheltering tree,

Then leave it everlastingly!

—On, on they go, in sorrow blind.

Yet with a still and gentle motion

That speaks the inner soul resign'd;

Like little billows o'er the ocean

Still flowing on with tide and wind,

And though the tempest smite their breast,

Reaching at last some bay of rest.

God bless them on their pilgrimage! And may his hand divine With healing dew their woes assuage, When they have reach'd that silent shrine By nature fram'd in the open air, With soft turf for the knees of prayer, And dome of many a pastoral hill Lying in henVen serene and still; For pilgrims ne'er to Sion went More mournful, or more innocent. Before the rueful Cross to lie At midnight on Mount Calvary. Two favourite sheep before them go— Each with its lambs of spotless snow Frisking around with pattering feet, With peaceful eyes and happy bleat. Happy! yet like a soft complaint! As if at times the voice of sorrow Through the hnsh'd air came breathing Taint From blessed things that fear no morrow. —Each Shepherdess holds in her hand A verdant crook of the willow-wand, Wreath'd round with melancholy flowers Gather'd 'mid the hills in happier hours. In a small cage a thrush is sitting— Or, restless as the light That through his sunny prison plays. From perch to perch each moment flitting, His quick and glancing eye surveys The novel trees and fields so bright, And like a torrent gushing strong He sends through heaven his sudden song, A song that all dim thought destroys, And breathes o'er all its own wild joys.

As on the Orphans hold their way Through the stillness of the dying day, Fairies might they seem who are returning, At th« end of some allotted time, L'nto their own immortal clime! Each bearing in its lovely hand Some small memorial of the land Where they, like common human frames, And call'd by gentle Christian names, For long had been sojourning! Some little fair insensate thing, Relic of that wild visiting! Bird that beneath a brighter spring Of its own vanish'd earth will sing; Those harmless creatures that will glide O'er faery-vales in earthly snow, And from the faery-river's flow Come forth more purely beautified.

Now with n wild and mournful song The fair procession moves along, While by that tune so sweet The little flock delighted press As if with human tenderness Around the singer's feet. Up—up the gentle slope they Vind, Leaving the laughing flowers behind That seem to court their stay. One moment on the top they stand, At the wild-unfolding vale's command, —Then down into that faery-land Dream-like they sink away!




Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree,
Slore frail and death-like even than thee,
Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;
The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven
Full in thy face are coldly driven,
As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.

Yetchill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain,
Mild creature! thou dost not complain
By sound or look of these ungracious skies;
Calmly as if in friendly shed,
There standst thou, -with unmoving head.
And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-
closed eyes.

Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze
On thee; nor am I loth to praise
Him who in moral mood this image drew;
And yet, methinks, that I could frame
An image difl'crent, yet the same.
More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Na-
ture true.

Behold a lane retired and green,
Winding amid a forest-scene
With blooming furze in many a radiant heap;
There is a browsing Ass espied,
One colt is frisking by her side,
And one among her feet is snfely strctch'd
in sleep.

And lo! a little maiden stands,
With thistles in her tender hands,
Tempting with kindly wordR the colt to cat;
Or gently down before him lays.
With words of solnce and of praise,
Pluck'd from th' untrodden turf the herbage
soft and sweet.

The summer-sun is sinking down,
And the peasnnts from the market-town
With cheerful hearts are to their homes

Groupes of gay children too are there,
Stirring with mirth the silent air,
O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter

The Ass hath got his burthen still!
The merry elves the panniers fill;
Delighted there from side to side they swing:
The creature heeds nor shout nor call,
But jogs on careless of them all,
Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike
or sing.

A gipscy-groupe! the secret wood

Stirs through its leafy solitude.

As wheels the dance to mnny a jocund tunc;

Th' unpannier'd Ass slowly retires

From the brown tents, and sparkling fires.

And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.

The Moon sits o'er the huge oak-tree,
More pensive 'mid this scene of glee
That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest;
The soul of all her softest rays
On yonder placid creature plays,
As if she wish'd to cheer the hardship of
the opprcst.

But now the silver moonbeams fade,
And, peeping through a flowery glade.
Hush'das a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies:
An Ass stands meek and patient there,
And by her side a spectre fair,
To drink the balmy cup once more before
she dies.

With tenderest care the pitying dame

Supports the dying maiden's frame.

And strives with laughing looks her heart

to cheer; While playful children crowd around To satch her eye by smile or sound, Unconscious of the doom that waits their

lady dear!

I feel this mournful dream impart

A holier image to my heart,

For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime giTc

birth: Blest creature! through the solemn night. I see thee bath'd in heavenly light. Shed from that wondrous child—the Saviour

of the Earth.

When flying Herod's mnrd'rous rage,
Tb on on that -wretched pilgrimage
Didst gently near the virgin-mother He;
On thee the humble .Icsns sate.
When thousands rush'd to Salem'a gate
To see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass b»

Happy thou wert, nor low thy praise.
In peaceful patriarchal days.
When countless tents slow passed from Ian
to land.

Like clouds o'er heaven: the gentle race
Soch quiet scene did meetly grace,
Circling- the pastoral camp in many a state-
ly band.

Poor wretch! my musing dream is o'er;
Tky shivering form I view once more,
And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove;
Bat they whose thoughtful spirits see
T/ic truth of life, will pause with me,
And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and


0 Guru Sleep! wilt Thou lay thy head
For one little hour on thy Lover's bed,
And none but the silent stars of night
Shall witness be to our delight!

Alas! 'tis «aid that the Couch must be

Of the Eider-down thnt is spread for Thco,

So, I in my sorrow must lie nlone,

For mine, sweet Sleep! a Couch of stone.

Music to Thee, I know, is dear;
Then, the saddest of music is ever here,
'or Grief sits with me in my cell,
ind the is a Syren who singeth well.

BotThon, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs, 'ad wilt only come to thy Lover's prayers * hen the bells of merriment are ringing, And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

F»ir Sleep! so long in thy beauty wooed, >o Rival hast Thou in my solitude; jf mine, my Love! and we two will lie Embraced for ever—or awake to die!

Jwr Sleep! farewell!—hour, lioiir.lioiir. hour, ''ill slowly bring on the gleam of Morrow, B»l Thou art Joy's faithful Paramour, '»«■ lie wilt Thou not in the arms of Sorrow.

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While thus, with unresisted art,
The Enchantress melted every heart,
Amid the glance, the sigh, the smile,
Herself, unmoved and cold the while,
With inward pity eyed the scene,
Where all were subjects—she a Queen!

Again, I saw that Lady fair:
Oh! what a beauteous change was there!
In a sweet cottage of her own
She sat, and she was all alone,
Save a young child she sung to rest
On its soft bed, her fragrant breast.
With happy smiles and happy sighs,
She kiss'd the infant's closing eyes,
Then, o'er him in the cradle laid,
Moved her dear lips ns if she pray'd.
She blcss'd him in his father's name:
Lo! to her side that father came,
And, in a voice subdued and mild.
He bless'd the mother and her child.
1 thought upon the proud saloon,
And that Enchantress Queen; but soon,
Far-off Art's fading pageant stole,
And Nature fill'd my thoughtful soul!


Art thou a thing of mortal birth,

Whose happy home is on our earth?

Docs human blood with life embue

Those wandering veins of heavenly'blue,

That stray along thy forehead fair,

Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?

Oh! can that light and airy breath

Steal from a being doom'd to death;

Those features to the grave he sent

In sleep thus mutely eloquent;

Or, art thou, what thy.form would seem,

The phantom of a blessed dream?

A human shape I feel thou art,

I feel it, at my beating heart,

Those tremors both of soul and sense

Awoke by infant innocence!

Though dear the forms by fancy wove,

We love them with a transient love;

Thoughts from the living world intrude

Even on her deepest solitude:

But, lovely child! thy magic stole

At once into my inmost soul,

With feelings as thy beauty fair,

And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown!
Glad would they be their child to own!
And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home wouldst live.'

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