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THE LOST DAY.
Lost! lost! lost !
A gem of countless price,
And graved in Paradise ;
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
All changeful as the light.
Lost, where the thoughtless throng
In Fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth Folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind.
A golden harp to buy,
To deathless minstrelsy.
Lost! lost! lost!
I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost
Can ne'er be mine again. I offer no reward
For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven's intrusted gift
Is reft away for ever.
But when the sea and land
Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand
Who judgeth quick and dead;
That man can ne'er repair,
ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had pealed along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun
Looked o'er the tide-worn steep
Before the rushing blast
And bowed her noble mast.
The queenly ship! brave hearts liad striven,
And true ones died with her!
Like floating gossamer :
A star once o'er the seas ;
And sadder things than these.
We saw her treasures cast away
The rocks with pearl were sown;
Flashed out o'er fretted stone;
Like ashes by a breeze;
Had sadder sights than these !
We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside!
Not without strife he died !
Till then we had not wept,
That there a mother slept !
For her pale arms a babe had pressed
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp ! Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet, long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.
· And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
In melancholy grace.
With half-shut violet eye;
Nought of her agony !
Oh, human love! whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu !
There is some home for thee,
The moaning of the sea !
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee ;-
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O’er each fair sleeping brow;
Where are those dreamers now?
One, ’midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid –
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one
He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded ’midst Italian flowers
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the heartlı-
THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT.
OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade
A dying woman lay;
A woful wail that day.
“O mother !” was the mingled cry “O mother, mother! do not die
And leave us all alone.”— “My blessed babes !” she tried to say, But the faint accents died away
In a low sobbing moan.
And then life struggled hard with death, And fast and strong she drew her breatlı,
And up she raised her head ; And peering through the deep wood maze With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
“Will he not come ?" she said.
Just then, the parting boughs between, A little maid’s light form was seen,
All breathless with her speed ; And following close, a man came on, (A portly man to look upon),
Who led a panting steed. “Mother!" the little maiden cried, Or e'er she reached the woman's side
And kissed her clay-cold cheek; “I have not idled in the town, But long went wandering up and down,
The minister to seek.
They told me here—they told me thereI think they mocked me everywhere ;
And when I found his home, And begged him on my bended knee To bring his book, and come with me
Mother! he would not come.
I told him how you dying lay,
Without the minister ;
Mother ! he would not stir.