OUT OF THE PLAGUE-STRICKEN CITY. Why vex with thoughts of dolor the peace of happy hours?" Swift the lights and shadows where the aspens grow. The air is thrilled with bird-notes, in the rapture of their singing; Minor chords are sounding in the dove's plaint, soft and low; I am drunken with the gladness that Nature's grace is bringing, Be merry, then, O sweetheart; list the woodland chorus ringing.“ Far-off bells are tolling a requiem, sad and slow. She closed her heavy eyelids, laid her head upon his shoulder; Nevermore the dreaming of the happy long ago. "Alas! love, 'neath the flowers I see the dead leaves moulder. I am chill, so chill and weary; has the sunny day grown colder? " Autumn leaves are falling, as the west-winds come and go. Plague-stricken? Yes, O lover, for the Yellow King has seized her, Vast the realm of shadows, where no earth winds blow; Midst the bird songs and the clover and the fresh free air he claims her. Vainly, vainly from his power would thy frantic love withhold her, Weep o'er sweetest flowers, killed by winter's snow. He laid her 'neath the aspens, but e'er the first gray dawning, Blessed the peaceful garden where God's lilies blow, Her lovely eyes half opened, and without sigh or warning, Her soul beyond the shadows had sprung to meet the morning. Oh. the blissful morning which His people know! FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. HEN the hours of day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlor wall; Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished By the roadside fell and perished, OW can it shine so bright, That shines upon our dead! DEAD IN NOVEMBER. Veiled though the pitying stars of night, With softened touch, its brief eclipse The weighted eyes, the solemn rest, These roistering winds that toss, As joyous and as free as they, The peevish crows o'erhead The winter-birds chirp clear, Mid pause in feast of berries red, Cheery and pert, though song-mates gone, And woods are sere; Sun-kissed and glad the stream flows on- To-morrow-and the end! The coffin-lid Will close, and o'er it we With tears and bursting hearts will bend, And think of all forever hid, My boy, with thee! Thy sunny ways, thy kindling joy, Thy mind's quick reach, my bright-eyed boy! Thy gracious promise unfulfilled, The high-set hopes we could but build, Oh anguish vain! There is The tyrant heart of Death; No respite, won with agonies E'en such as Love and Grief approve, With sobbing breath: Not all Earth's tears the hands could stay Pity, O Christ! our eyes unseal E. HANNAFORD BOSOM empty of a heart of pain makes a lustreless life; but a bosom in which a heart bleeds reveals hidden virtues. |