Page images
PDF
EPUB

And yet with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in His hands,
I know a lasting record stands,

Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part hath wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory, or for shame.

H. Gould.

THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.

Now the growing year is over,
And the shepherd's tinkling bell
Faintly from its winter cover
Rings a low farewell :

Now the birds of Autumn shiver,

Where the withered beech-leaves quiver,

O'er the dark and lazy river,

In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,

Reddening in the rising sun :

Now the flowers around the fountains

Perish one by one :

Not a spire of grass is growing,

But the leaves that late were glowing, Now its blighted green are strowing With a mantle dun.

Now the torrent brook is stealing
Faintly down the furrowed glade,
Not, as when in winter pealing,
Such a din is made,

That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,

As its hoarse and heavy brawling
In the pine's black shade.

Darkly blue the mist is hovering
Round the clifted rock's bare height-
All the bordering mountains covering
With a dim, uncertain light:
Now, a fresher wind prevailing,
Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.

Slow the blood-stained moon is riding Through the still and hazy air,

Like a sheeted spectre gliding

In the torch's glare:

Few the hours her light is given-
Mingling clouds of tempest driven
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
All is blackness there.

Percival.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

Faintly flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away ;
Down to ocean gliding ever,

Keep thy calm unruffled way :
Time with such a silent motion,
Floats along, on wings of air,
To eternity's dark ocean,
Burying all its treasures there.

Roses bloom, and then they wither:

Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither

Then, like visions, hurry by: Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-coloured west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest.

Percival.

THE RIVER.

O, tell me, pretty river!
Whence do thy waters flow?
And whither art thou roaming,
So pensive and so slow?

"My birthplace was the mountain, My nurse, the April showers; My cradle was a fountain,

O'er curtained by wild flowers.

"One morn I ran away,
A madcap, hoyden rill-
And many a prank that day
I played adown the hill!

"And then, 'mid meadowy banks,
I flirted with the flowers,
That stooped, with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.

"But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave,

I hear the ocean's roar,

And there must be my grave!"

Goodrich.

THE FAMILY MEETING.

We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,

All who hold each other dear.

Each chair is filled-we're all at home:
To-night let no cold stranger come;
It is not often thus around

Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot :
For once be every care forgot :
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour:
We're all-all here.

We're not all here!

Some are away—the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth,
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Looked in, and thinned our little band:
Some like a night-flash passed away,
And some sank, lingering, day by day;
The quiet graveyard-some lie there-
And cruel Ocean has his share-

We're not all here.

« PreviousContinue »