THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the wisps and glow-worms shine, Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace. All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, Longfellow. GOD'S ACRE. I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life; alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again, At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain; Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place, where human harvests grow! Longfellow. AUTUMN IN AMERICA. With what a glory comes and goes the year! Comes down upon the Autumn sun, and with There is a beautiful spirit breathing now The golden robin moves. Through the trees The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, O, what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth, Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings; He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Longfellow. TWILIGHT. The twilight is sad and cloudy, But in the fisherman's cottage Close, close it is pressed to the window, Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise. |