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But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,

That the angel of death might see the sign, and pass over.

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit, exhausted,

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience;

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THERE IS NO DEATH. HERE is no death! The stars go down To rise upon some fairer shore; And bright, in heaven's jeweled crown, They shine for evermore.

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;

Then through those realms of shade, in multi

plied reverberations,

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded,

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,

"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and walking under their shadow,

As in the days of their youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize,

And feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest-leaves drink daily life

From out the viewless air.

There is no death! The leaves may fall, And flowers may fade and pass away; They only wait through wintry hours The coming of May-day.

There is no death! An angel-form

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; And bears our best-loved things away, And then we call them "dead."

He leaves our hearts all desolate,

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers;

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he Transplanted into bliss, they now

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Adorn immortal bowers.

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones Made glad the scenes of sin and strife, Sings now an everlasting song

Around the tree of life.

Where'er he sees a smile too bright,
Or heart too pure for taint and vice,
He bears it to that world of light,
To dwell in Paradise.

Born unto that undying life,

They leave us but to come again;
With joy we welcome them the same,
Except their sin and pain.

And ever near us, though unseen,
The dear immortal spirits tread;
For all the boundless universe
Is life-there is no dead!

SIR EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON.

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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.

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly

The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it-
Picture 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,

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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MOURNING.

(From "Hamlet," Act I., Scene 2.)

'S not alone my inity solemn black,
IS not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

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,

DEATH OF OPHELIA.

(From "Hamlet,"Act IV., Scene 7.)

UEEN. One wo doth tread upon another's heel,

QUE

So fast they follow:-Your sister's drown'd,
Laertes.

Laer. Drown'd! O, where!

Queen. There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook,

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;

There with fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:

There, on the pendent boughs her coronet
weeds

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies, and herself,
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread
wide;

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time, she chaunted snatches of old
tunes;

As one incapable of her own distress,.
Or like a creature native and indu'd
Unto that element: but long it could not be,
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious
lay

To muddy death.
Laer.

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eyes

Never has gone away.

And her needles catch the firelight
As in and out they go,

With the clicking music that grandma loves,
Shaping the stocking toe.

And the waiting children love it, too,
For they know the stocking song
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.

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