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Was filled but with his image. She had l vas a Esthe
And vatted his few last burbut he
Simo Rursus died; they threw the funer- And caught a perfume on the air
pen bis wud, and are those leares vere Din. ad as if it canne se rid
Oer thoughts and this time passed by! With autumn's yellow colour, they were on one side of the temple strad
A deep and solitary Food For the poor Kules's death-wreaths! ... Where chestuts reared the giant length, They made her grare by Rosso's ! And mocked the fallea con strength;
It was the lase wood-piger's bope.
A cooing dirge to days be mare!
And by its side there was a lake
With ebon feet and silver ving,
The quiet waters' glittering.
And when sometimes, as eve dosed in,
I waked my lonely mandolin,
As if they loved that song to hear.
An eye to gaze on it wave mine; I could not bear another's look
'Tis past, 'tis past, my happiness Should dwell upon one thought of thine. Was all too pure and passionless! My lamp was burning by my side,
I waked from calm and pleasant dreams Í held thy letter to the flame,
To watch the morning's earliest gleams, I marked the blaze swift o'er it glide,
Wandering with light feet 'mid the dew, It did not even spare thy name.
Till my cheek caught its rosy hoe; Soon the light from the embers past,
And when uprose the brighteyed moen, I felt so sad to see it die,
I sorrowed day was done so soon; Só bright at first, so dark at last,
Save that I loved the sweet starlight, I feared it was Love's history.
The soft, the happy sleep of night!
THE PAINTER'S LOVE.
Time has changed since, and I have wept
Your skies are blue, your sun is bright;
There was a stranger sought our land,
Our first kiss sealed, we stood beneath | MANMADIN, THE INDIAN CUPID,
PLOATING DOWN THE GANGES.
| THERE is darkness on the sky, I only looked within his eyes,
And the troubled waves run high, I saw no dooming star above,
And the lightning-flash is breaking, There is such happiness in love!
And the thunder-peal is waking; I left, with him, my native sbore,
Reddening meteors, strange and bright, Not as a bride who passes o'er
Cross the rainbow's timid light, Her father's threshold with his blessing, As if mingled hope and fear, With flowers strewn and friends caressing, Storm and sunshine, shook the sphere. Kind words, and purest hopes to cheer Tempest-winde rush fierce along, The bashfulness of maiden fear;
Bearing yet a sound of song,
Music's on the tempest's wing,
Gathered in a summer-hour,
Rides he o'er the mountain-wave I thought not of my own sweet home, Which would be a tall ship’s grave! Nor of mine aged father's sorrow,
At his back his bow is slung, Wild love takes no thought for to-morrow. Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung,-I left my home, and I was left
Bees born with the buds of spring, A stranger in his land, bereft
Yet with each a deadly sting ;Of even hope; there was not one
Grasping in his infant hand Familiar face to look upon.
Arrows in their silken band,
Of the almond, bright and brief,
For but one hour's flourishing;
The red beauty of the rose;
Some in summer's full perfume;
Falling with the falling year; This wish is vain, my grave must be Some bright with the rainbow-dyes Far distant from my own country!
Of the tulip's vanities; I must rest here.-Oh lay me then
Some, bound with the lily's bell, By the white church in yonder glen; | Breathe of love that dares not tell Amid the darkening elms, it seems, Its sweet feelings; the dark leaves Thus silvered over by the beams
Of the esignum, which grieves Of the pale moon, a very shrine
Droopingly, round some were bound; For wounded hearts-it shall be mine! Others were with tendrils wound There is one corner, green and lone, Of the green and laughing vine,-A dark yew over it has thrown
And the barb was dipped in winc. Long, night-like boughs ; 'tis thickly set But all these are summer-ills, With primrose and with violet.
Like the tree whose stem distils Their bloom 's now past; but in the spring Balm beneath its pleasant shade They will be sweet and glistening.
In the wounds its thorns have made. There is a bird, too, of your clime,
Though the flowers may fade and die, That sings there in the winter-time; 'Tis but a light penalty. My funeral hymn his song will be,
All these bloom-clad darts are meant Which there are none to chant, save he. But for a short-lived content! And let there be memorial none,
Yet one arrow has a power No name upon the cold white stone: Lasting till life's latest hourThe only heart where I would be
Weary day and sleepless night, Remembered, is now dead to me!
Lightning-gleams of fierce delight, I would not even have him weep
| Fragrant and yet poisoned sighs, O’er his Italian love's last sleep.
Agonies and ecstasies;
Happiness one hasty draught,
Doubt, despairing, crime, and craft, | His golden hair has a deeper brown,
And his brow has caught a darker frown, It has made the crowned king
And his lip hath lost its boyish red, Crouch beneath his suffering;
And the shade of the south o'er his cheek Made the beauty's cheek more pale
is spread; Than the foldings of her veil;
But stately his step, and his bearing high, Like a child the soldier kneel
And wild the light of his fiery eye; Who had mocked at flarne or steel;
And proud in the lists were the maiden bright Bade the fires of genius turn
Who might claim the Knight of the Cross On their own breasts, and there burn;
for her knight. A wound, a blight, a curse, a doom, But he rides for the home he has pined to see Bowing young hearts to the tomb! | In the court, in the camp, in captivity. Well inay storm be on the sky, And the waters roll on high, When MANMADIN passes by.
He reached the castle,—the gate was Earth below, and heaven above,
thrown Well may bend to thee, oh Love!
Open and wide, but he stood there alone;
And for banner there waved one pale wall-
And for sound of the trumpet and sound of VIOLETS !-deep-blue violets! April's loveliest coronets !
the born, There are no flowers grow in the vale,
Came the scream of the owl on the nightKissed by the dew, wooed by the gale,
wind borne ;
And the turrets were falling, the vassals None by the dew of the twilight wet,
were flown, So sweet as the deep-blue violet;
And the bat ruled the halls he had thought I do remember how sweet a breath Came with the azure light of a wreath
His heart throbbed high: oh, never again That hung round the wild harp's golden
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words.
spirit's pain; I have seen that dear harp rolled
He never might think on his boyish years With gems of the East and bands of gold;
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet
warm tears But it never was sweeter than when set With leaves of the deep-blue violet!
Which Hope and Memory shed when they And when the grave shall open for me,
meet. I care not how soon that time may be,
The grave of his kindred was at his feet:
He stood alone, the last of his race,
With the cold, wide world for his dwelling. But there be that flower's meek regret,
The home of his fathers gone to decay, The bending and deep-blue violet!
All but their memory was passed away;
He came in the pride of his war-success
But to weep over very desolateness.
They pointed him to a barren plain He is come from the land of the sword and Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen shrine,
were slain; From the sainted battles of Palestine;
They showed him the lowly grave, where slept The snow-plumes wave o'er his victor-crest, The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept; Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast;/
But they could not show him one living thing His courser is black as black can be,
To which his withered heart could cling Save the brow-star white as the foam of
Is one, the first in the battle-line;
And the motto he bears is, “I fight for a He comes not back the same that he went,
grave: " For his sword has been tried, and his strength He found it-that warrior has died with has been spent; I
MISCELL A NEOUS POEM S.
| That Christ, our Captain, triumph'd over
Death, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN A BURIAL-GROUND And is the first fruits of the dead below;BELONGING TO THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS. That he has trod for man this path of woe,
Dying,—to rise again!-we would not grace What though no sculptur'd monuments Death's transitory spell with trophied show;
As if that shadowy vale supplied no trace With epitaphs engraven, meet me herc; To prove the grave is not our final dwellingYet conscious feeling owns, with awe pro
place. found, The habitation of the dead is near: With reverend feeling, not with childish fear, The poet's page, indeed, would fain supply I tread the ground which they, when living, A specious reason for the sculptor's art;
Telling of "holy texts that teach to die :" Pondering this truth, to Christians justly dear, But much I doubt they seldom reach the Whose influence lends an interest to the sod
heart That covers their remains :—The dead still of church-yard-rovers. How should truths live to God!
impart Instruction, when engraven upon stone,
| If unconfess'd before? The Christian's chart Is it not written in the hallow'd page Records the answer unto Dives known, Of Revelation, God remains to be
Who, for his brethren's sake, pleaded in The Lord of all, in every clime and age,
suppliant tone. Who fear'd and serv'd him living? Did not He, Who for our sins expir'd upon the tree, Style him of Abram, Isaac, Jacob,-Lord! If Moses and the Prophets speak unheard, Because they liv'd to Him? Then why should Neither would they believe if spoke the dead.
Then how should those, by whom unmov'd (As if we could no fitter meed afford)
the word Raise them memorials here?- Their dust of greater far than such has oft been read,
shall be restor'd By random texts, thus strewn around, be led
Aright to live, or die? And how much Jens
Can false and foolish tributes, idly sprcad, Could we conceive Death was indeed the close In mockery of truth and tenderness, Of our existence, Nature might demand Awaken solemn thoughts, or holy themes That, where the reliques of our friends repose,
impress? Some record to their memory should stand, To keep them unforgotten in the land :Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble-bust, And, therefore, would I never wish to see By sculptor's art elaborately plann'd, | Tombstone, or epitaph obtruded here. Would seem a debt due to their mouldering All has been done, requir'd by decency,
When the unprison'd spirit sought its spherc: Though time would soon efface the perish- The lifeless body, stretch'd upon the bier
With due solemnity, was laid in earth;
Claim'd by pure love, and deeply cherish'd But, hoping, and believing; yea, through
Might risc or fall uncheck'd, as sorrow gare Knowing, because His word has told us so,
There wanted not the pall, or modding plume. While that inscription was recording there; The white-rob a priest, the stated form of Ind, till his earthly coane shall be fulfird.
That tablet, indestructible, mast bear There needed not the livery i garb of gloon. The moarner's woe, in lines Death can alone That grief, or carelessness, alike might
Twas felt that ach things had no basiness
Then. be our burial-grounds, as should Instead of these, a silent panse, to tell
become What language could not; or, ancoand by A simple. bat a sot unfeeling race:
| Let them appear, to outward semblance, Of rhetoric's rules, from faltering lips there
As best befits the quiet dwelling-place Some truth, to mourners dear, in memory Appointed for the prisoners of Grace,
long to dwell. Who wait the promise by the Gospel given,When the last trump shall sound,--the
trembling base Then came the painful close-delay'd as of tombs, of temples, pyramids be riven,
And all the dead arise before the hosts of As well might be for silent sorrow's sake;
Heaven! Hallow'd by love, which never seems so
strong, As when its dearest ties are doom'd to break. Oh! in that awful hour, of what avail One farewell-glance there yet remain'd to into the spiritual body, will be found
The costliest canopy, or proudest tale Searce could the tearful eye fulfil its trust, Recorded on it?- what avail the bound When, leaning o'er the grave, with thoughts of hols, or unconsecrated ground?
As freely will the unencumber'd sod
The scene is past!-and what of added good
Whose blameless life, and peaceful, hopeful From all the empty show of man's contriving?
end, What worthier of memory's cherish'a hiving Endear. alike. thy cherish'd memory; With miser care? In hours of such distress | Thine will a joyful resurrection be! Deep, deep into itself the heart is diving; Thy works, before-hand, unto judginent Ay! into depths which reason must confess, At least mine owns them 60, awful and The second death shall have no power of
thee: On thee, redeem'd by his beloved Son,
Thy FATHER then shall smile, and greet thee Oh! 'tis not in the bitterness of grief
with WELL DONE! Bereavement brings with it, the anguish'd
mind Can find in funeral mummeries relief. What matters, to the mourner left behind, I could
Could I but hope a lot so blest as thine The outward pomp of circumstance, assign'd | Awaited me, no happier would I crave: To such a sacrifice? What monument
That hope should then forbid me to repine Is wanted, where affection has enshrin'd
That Heaven so soon resum'd the gift it The memory of the dead? Grief must have
gave; That hope should teach me every ill to
spent Itself, before one thought to such poor).
brave; themes is lent. Should whisper, 'mid the tempest's loudest
| Thy spirit walk'd with me life's storiniest And, when it hath so spent itself, does it
wave: Need other pile than what itself can build? And lead me, when Time's fleeting span was O nol-it has an epitaph unwrit,
flown, Yet graven deeper far than the most skilla Calmly to share thy couch, which needs Or artists' tool can reach:--the full heart
graven stone thrillid,