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But, as he lay in the morning light, his face All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish for a moment

of patience; Seemed to assume once more the forms of its And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head earlier manhood;

to her bosom, So are wont to be changed the faces of those Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, who are dying.

“Father, I thank thee!" Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. of the fever, As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had be

THERE IS NO DEATH. sprinkled its portals, That the angel of death might see the sign,

THERE is no death! The stars go down

To rise upon some fairer shore; and pass over.

And bright, in heaven's jeweled crown, Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his

They shine for evermore. spirit, exhausted, Seemed to be sinking down through infinite There is no death! The dust we tread depths in the darkness,

Shall change beneath the summer showers Darkness of slumber and death, forever sink- To golden grain or mellow fruit, ing and sinking;

Or rainbow-tinted flowers. Then through those realms of shade, in multi- The granite rocks disorganize, plied reverberations,

And feed the hungry moss they bear; Heard he that cry of pain, and through the The forest-leaves drink daily life hush that succeeded,

From out the viewless air. Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,

There is no death! The leaves may fall, “Gabriel! O my beloved!” and died away in And flowers may fade and pass away ; to silence.

They only wait through wintry hours Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the

The coming of May-day. home of his childhood;

There is no death! An angel-form Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; among them,

And bears our best-loved things away, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and

And then we call them “dead." walking under their shadow, As in the days of their youth, Evangeline rose

He leaves our hearts all desolate, in his vision.

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he Transplanted into bliss, they now lifted his eyelids,

Adorn immortal bowers. Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones knelt at his bedside.

Made glad the scenes of sin and strife, Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the

Sings now an everlasting song accents unuttered

Around the tree of life. Died on his lips, and their motion revealed

what his tongue would have spoken. Where'er he sees a smile too bright, Vainly he strove to rise, and Evangeline, Or heart too pure for taint and vice, kneeling beside him,

He bears it to that world of light, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her

To dwell in Paradise. bosom.'

Born unto that undying life, Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it sud

They leave us but to come again; denly sank into darkness,

With joy we welcome them the same, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of

Except their sin and pain. wind at a casement.

And ever near us, though unseen, All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, The dear immortal spirits tread; and the sorrow,

For all the boundless universe All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatis Is life—there is no dead! fied longing,

Sir EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON,

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THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
("* Drowned ! drowned !”-Hamlet.)

Not of the stains of her; NE more unfortunate,

All that remains of her
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,

Now, is pure womanly. Gone to her death!

Make no deep scrutiny

Into ber mutiny Take her up tenderly,

Rash and undutiful; Lift her with care ;

Past all dishonor, Fashioned so slenderly,

Death has left on her Young, and so fair!

Only the beautiful. Look at her garments

S for all slips of hers, Clinging like cerements;

e of Eve's family, While the wave constantly

W · those poor lips of hers Drips from her clothing;

zing so clammily. Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb, Touch her not scornfully ;

Her fair auburn tresses; Think of her mournfully,

Whilst wonderment guiesses Gently and humanly;

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity

Under the sun!
Oh, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,

Home she had none!
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed; Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,

Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,

Swift to be hurled-
Anywhere, anywhere,

Out of the world.

Decently, kindly
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing

Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,

Into her rest.
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior;
And leaving with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!

THOMAS Hood.

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In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly

The rough river ranOver the brink of itPicture it, think of it,

Dissolute man! Lave in it, drink of it,

Then, if you can! Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly,

Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,

In our days of mirth and gladness,

We may spurn their faint control, But they come, in hours of sadness,

Like sweet music to the soul; And in sorrow, o'er us stealing

With their gentleness and calm, They are leaves of precious healing,

They are fruits of choicest balm.

Ever till, when life departs,

Death from dross the spirit frees,
Cherish in thy heart of hearts
All thine olden memories.

C. Cist.

THE DEATH OF THE BABE Oh, weep no more! Yet there is balm

In Gilead! Love doth ever shed
CHRISTABEL.

Rich healing where it nestles, spread
(From "The Ballad of Babe Christabel.')

O’er desert pillows some green balm. this dim world of clouding cares, We rarely know, till wildered eyes

Strange glory streams through life's wild See white wings lessening up the skies,

rents, The angels with us unawares.

And through the open door of death,

We see the heaven that beckoneth
And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!

To the beloved going hence.
Shall light the dark up like a star,
A beacon kindling from afar

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed;
Our light of love, and fainting faith.

The best fruits load the broken bough;

And in the wounds our sufferings plow, Through tears it gleams perpetually,

Immortal love sows sovereign seed. And glitters through the thickest glooms,

GERALD MASSEY. Till the eternal morning comes To light us o'er the jasper sea.

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With our best branch in tenderest leaf

We've strewn the way our Lord doth come;

And, ready for the harvest-home, His reapers bind our ripest sheaf.

Our beautiful bird of light hath fled;

Awhile she sat with folded wings,

Sang round us a few hoverings, Then straightway into glory sped.

And white-winged angels nurture her;
With heaven's white radiance robed and

crowned,
And all love's purple glory round,
She summers on the hills of myrrh.

GERALD MASSEY.

Through childhood's morning land serene,

She walked betwixt us twain, like love;

While, in a robe of light, above Her better angel walked unseen.

Till life's highway broke bleak and wild ;

Then, lest her starry garments trail

In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, The angel's arms caught up the child.

Her wave of life hath backward rolled

To the great ocean, on whose shore

We wander up and down, to store Some treasures of the times of old;

MOURNING.

(From “ Hamlet," Act I., Scene 2.)
'TIS not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: These, indeed,

seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of wo.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE,

And aye we seek and hunger on

For precious pearls and relics rare,

Strewn on the sands for us to wear At heart, for love of her that's gone,

III.

Q

brook,

DEATH OF OPHELIA.

Away! we know that tears are vain, (From "Hamlet,”Act IV., Scene 7.)

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : UEEN. One wo doth tread upon an- Will this unteach us to complain ? other's heel,

Or make one mourner weep the less ? So fast they follow :-Your sister's drown'd, And thou—who tell’st me to forget, Laertes.

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. Laer. Drown'd! 0, where!

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. Queen. There is a willow grows ascaunt the

GRANDMOTHER'S SERMON. That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;

THE supper is o'er, the hearth is swept, There with fantastic garlands did she make

And in the woodfire's glow Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long The children cluster to hear a tale purples,

Of that time so long ago, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call When grandma's hair was golden brown, them:

And the warm blood came and went There, on the pendent boughs her coronet O'er the face that could scarce have been weeds

sweeter then (lambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;

Than now in its rich content.
When down her weedy trophies, and herself, The face is wrinkled and careworn now,
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread

And the golden hair is gray ;
wide;

But the light that shone in the young girl's And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:

eyes Which time, she chaunted snatches of old

Never has gone away. tunes; As one incapable of her own distress,

And her needles catch the firelight Or like a creature native and indu'd

As in and out they go, Unto that element: but long it could not be, With the clicking music that grandma loves, Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Shaping the stocking toe. Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay

And the waiting children love it, too, To muddy death.

For they know the stocking song Laer.

Alas then, she is drown'd? Brings many a tale to grandma's mind
Queen. Drown'd, drown'd.

Which they shall have ere long.
WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

But it brings no story of olden time

To grandma's heart to-night-
"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN Only a refrain, quaint and short,

Is sung by the needles bright.
BEAUTY"S BLOOM.

“Life is a stocking,” grandma says H! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,

“And yours is just begun; On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But I am knitting the toe of mine, But on thy turf shall roses rear

And my work is almost done. Their leaves, the earliest of the year;

“With merry hearts we begin to knit, And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And the ribbing is almost play;

Some are gray-colored and some are white; And oft by yon blue gushing stream

And some are ashen gray.
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream, “But most are made of many hues,
And lingering pause and lightly tread; And many a stitch set wrong;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the And many a row to be sadly ripped
dead!

Ere the whole is fair and strong.

I.

II.

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