O! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.

O! SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause, and lightly tread:
Fond wretch as if her step disturbed the dead

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:

Will this unteach us to complain,

Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

LORD BYRON

THE TWO VILLAGES.

All around it the forest trees
Whisper and shiver in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go

Of soaring hawk and screaming crow;
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river, under the hill,
Another village lieth still;

There I see in the cloudy night
Twinkling stars of household light,

Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river shore;

And in the roads no grasses grow,

For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill

Never is sound of smithy or mill;

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers,

Never a clock to tell the hours;

The marble doors are always shut;

You cannot enter in hall or hut;
All the villagers lie asleep,
Never again to sow or reap,
Never in dreams to moan or sigh
Silent, and idle, and low they lie.

In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary heart in prayer
Looks to the other village there,

CHRISTMAS.

And, weeping and sighing, wants to go
Up to that home from this below
Longs to sleep in the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, this answer fall:
"Patience! that village shall hold you all."

ROSE TERRY.

CHRISTMAS.

LIFT up your heads, ye gates! swing wide
Ye dazzling portals of the morn?

Forth let the Filial Godhead ride

On wings of cherubim up-borne.

Nor dare, thou flushed and flattered East,
The Sun of Righteousness to stay,
Now that the long dark night has ceased,
And souls are hungry for the day.

On mountain tops bright heralds stand
With beautiful and shining feet,

And publish over sea and land

The certain tidings glad and sweet.

He comes! The sky is all on fire,
We see the bannered pomp unfurled,
Th' advancing splendors rushing higher,
To flood and overflow the world.

ABRAHAM COLES.

A LITTLE WHILE

BEYOND the smiling and the weeping I shall be soon;

Beyond the waking and the sleeping, Beyond the sowing and the reaping,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come!

Beyond the blooming and the fading I shall be soon;

Beyond the shining and the shading, Beyond the hoping and the dreading,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come!

Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon;

Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come!