Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. "Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow; I am content to die-but, oh! not now!" The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near, Drift without echo to the whitening ground; Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear, Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. Yet still that pray'r ascends :-Oh! laughingly My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, And the roof rings with voices glad and loud; Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow! I am content to die-but, oh! not now!" The spring is come again—the joyful spring! Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread; The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing The child of earth is number'd with the dead! "Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, Beaming all readily through the lattice-pane; The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, Nor fond familiar voice arouse again! Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow; Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!" ATARAXIA. COME o'er the green hills to the sunny sea!The boundless sea that washeth many lands, Where shells unknown to England, fair and free, Lie brightly scatter'd on the gleaming sands, There, midst the hush of slumbering ocean's roar, We'll sit and watch the silver-tissued waves Creep languidly along the basking shore, And kiss thy gentle feet, like eastern slaves. And we will take some volume of our choice, And thou shalt read me, with thy plaintive voice, Lines which some gifted mind hath sweetly wrought. And I will listen, gazing on thy face Pale as some cameo on the Italian shell- Come forth! The sun hath flung on Thetis' breast And floating sea-birds leave the stirless air. And lulling winds are murmuring through the wood Which skirts the bright bay with its fringe of green. We will not mar the scene-we will not look And childhood's idleness return at last! Pale as some cameo on the Italian shellOr looking out across the far blue space Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell! THE WIDOW TO HER SON'S BETROTHED. Ан, cease to plead with that sweet cheerful voice, A double bitterness of grief should grow; Those words from THEE convey no gladdening thought, No sound of comfort lingers in their tone, But by their means a haunting shade is brought Of love and happiness for ever gone! My son!-alas, hast thou forgotten him, That thou art full of hopeful plans again? Nor bid love's sunshine cheer our lonely home,How hast thou conquer'd all the long despair Born of that sentence-He is in the tomb? How can thy hand with cheerful fondness press The hands of friends who still on earth may stayRemembering his most passionate caress When the long parting summon'd him away? How canst thou keep from bitter weeping, while Strange voices tell thee thou art brightly fairRemembering how he loved thy playful smile, Kiss'd thy smooth cheek, and praised thy burnish'd hair?" How canst thou laugh? How canst thou warble songs? How canst thou lightly tread the meadow-fields, Praising the freshness which to spring belongs, And the sweet incense which the hedge-flower yields? Does not the many-blossom'd spring recall, Our pleasant walks through cowslip-spangled meads,― The violet-scented lanes-the warm south-wall, Where early flow'rets rear'd their welcome heads? Does not remembrance darken on thy brow When the wild rose a richer fragrance flingsWhen the caressing breezes lift the bough, And the sweet thrush more passionately sings ;Dost thou not, then, lament for him whose form Was ever near thee, full of earnest grace? Does not the sudden darkness of the storm Seem luridly to fall on nature's face? It does to ME! The murmuring summer breeze, Which thou dost turn thy glowing cheek to meet, For me sweeps desolately through the trees, And moans a dying requiem at my feet! The glistening river which in beauty glides, Sparkling and blue with morn's triumphant light, All lonely flows, or in its bosom hides A broken image lost to human sight! But THOU !-Ah! turn thee not in grief away; I do not wish thy soul as sadly wrung I know the freedom of thy spirit's play, I know thy bounding heart is fresh and young: I know corroding Time will slowly break The links which bound most fondly and most fast, And Hope will be youth's comforter, and make The long bright future overweigh the past. Only, when full of tears I raise mine eyes And meet thine ever full of smiling light, I feel as though thy vanish'd sympathies Were buried in his grave, where all is night; And when beside our lonely hearth I sit, And thy light laugh comes echoing to my ear, I wonder how the waste of mirth and wit Hath still the power thy widow'd heart to cheer! Bear with me yet! Mine is a harsh complaint! And thy youth's innocent light-heartedness Should rather soothe me when my spirit's faint Than seem to mock my age's lone distress. But oh! the tide of grief is swelling high, And if so soon forgetfulness must beIf, for the dead, thou hast no further sigh, Weep for his mother!-Weep, young bride, for [me! WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH.* WEEP not for him that dieth- On a far land's hateful shore, Where ye see his face no more! Weep not for him that dieth, For friends are round his bed, And many a young lip sigheth When they name the early dead; But weep for him that liveth Where none will know or care, When the groan his faint heart giveth Is the last sigh of despair. Weep not for him that dieth, For his struggling soul is free, Death were but little pain. For he has ceased from tears, And a voice to his replieth Which he hath not heard for years; But weep for him who weepeth On that cold land's cruel shoreBlest, blest is he that sleepeth,Weep for the dead no more! "Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country."-Jeremiah xxii. 10. THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE. My beautiful! my beautiful! That standest meekly by With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, And dark and fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now, With all thy winged speed- So far am I behind; Full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky, Which clouds the stranger's home; Some other hand, less fond, must now Thy corn and bread prepare: The silky mane I braided once, Must be another's care! The morning sun shall dawn again, Some other steed, with slower step, Shall bear me home again. Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, The brilliant sun and sky, Thy master's home-from all of these, My exiled one must fly. Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, Thy step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, Thy master's hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold That dark eye, glancing bright- That step so firm and light: Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, And the rich blood that's in thee swells, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, When thou, who wert his all of joy, Like the false mirage appears. Where with fleet step and joyous bound And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think, "It was here he bow'd his glossy neck, I could not live a day, and know But I have loved too long. Shall claim thee for his pains. WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. We have been friends together, In sunshine and in shade; Since first beneath the chestnut trees In infancy we play'd. But coldness dwells within thy heart, We have laugh'd at little jests; Shall a light word part us now? We have been sad together, We have wept with bitter tears, The voices which are silent there RECOLLECTIONS. Do you remember all the sunny places, [gether? Where in bright days, long past, we play'd toDo you remember all the old home faces That gather'd round the hearth in wintry weather? Do you remember all the happy meetings, In Summer evenings round the open doorKind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings, And clasping hands whose pulses beat no more? Do you remember them? Do you remember all the merry laughter; The voices round the swing in our old garden: Do you remember when we first departed And talk'd with smiles of all the links which bound us? And after, when our footsteps were returning, Do you remember how the dreams of glory sure. Do you remember in far countries, weeping, When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought to mind Old happy thoughts, which till that hour were sleeping, And made us yearn for those we left behind? Do you remember when no sound woke gladly, But desolate echoes through our home were ringing, How for a while we talk'd-then paused full sadly, Because our voices bitter thoughts were bringing? Ah me! those days-those days! my friend, my brother, Sit down, and let us talk of all our wo, For we have nothing left but one another ;Yet where they went, old playmate, we shall goLet us remember this. SONNET. BE frank with me, and I accept my lot; But deal not with me as a grieving child, Who for the loss of that which he hath not Is by a show of kindness thus beguiled. Raise not for me, from its enshrouded tomb, By wavering doubts how far thou art released: This dressing pity in the garb of love, This effort of the heart to seem the same,These sighs and lingerings, (which nothing prove But that thou leavest me with a kind of shame,)— Remind me more, by their most vain deceit, Of the dear loss of all which thou dost counterfeit. THE FALLEN LEAVES. We stand among the fallen leaves, Where wither'd boughs are strown; The present is our own. We stand among the fallen leaves We tread with steps of conscious strength And the colour kindles in our cheek We wish the old year all past by, And the young spring come again. We stand among the fallen leaves How many a year hath pass'd Since neath those cold and faded trees Our footsteps wander'd last; We stand among the fallen leaves THE CARELESS WORD. A WORD is ringing through my brain: It was when first the sound I heard That word-oh! it doth haunt me now, When in the laughing crowd some tone, When dreams bring back the days of old, It comes and with it come the tears, It was the first, the only one Of these which lips forever gone Oh! ye who, meeting, sigh to part, THE MOURNERS. Low she lies, who blest our eyes Yet there is a world of light beyond, Where we neither die nor sleep- The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told Yet we know that her soul is happy now, Her laughing voice made all rejoice, As it lightly touch'd the ground. Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne- The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe, Were beautiful in the eyes of all And her glossy golden hair! From its dark and dreamless sleep, She is gone were young hearts do not break- That world of light with joy is bright, This is a world of wo: Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight, Because we dwell below? We will bury her under the mossy sod, And one long bright tress we'll keep; We have only given her back to GodAh! wherefore do we weep? SONNET. LIKE an enfranchised bird, who wildly springs, Glad and exulting in its liberty: And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more,) So, from its former bonds released in vain, [chain. My heart still feels the weight of that remember'd |