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 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, Born unto that undying life, They leave us but to come again; And ever near us, though unseen, SIR EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON. 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 Alas! for the rarity Sisterly, brotherly, With many a light From window and casement, The bleak wind of March Or the black flowing river; In she plunged boldly, The rough river ran— Dissolute man! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Ere her limbs frigidly Decently, kindly Smooth and compose them; Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Into her rest. Cross her hands humbly, And leaving with meekness, MOURNING. (From "Hamlet," Act I., Scene 2.) 'S not alone my inity solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, For they are actions that a man might play: 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, 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 Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: As one incapable of her own distress,. To muddy death. eyes Never has gone away. And her needles catch the firelight With the clicking music that grandma loves, And the waiting children love it, too, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. |