Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,
Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude!
Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse;

And tho' remembrance wake a tear,

There will be joy in grief.

CLXXX.

NOT TO THE MULTITUDE.

Southey.

Not to the multitude-oh, not to them!

But to the sacred few-the circle small-
Which formed thy world, and was thy all in all,

Entrust thy memory, and like a gem,

Love's gift, worn ever next the heart, 'twill lie
Imbedded in delight, deep, stainless, warm;
For if thy living voice, aspect, and form
Gladdened the ear and pleased the watchful eye
Of old affection, doubt not thou that death

Will make thee doubly dear, and that no voice
Will e'er again those constant souls rejoice,
Like that which God took from them with thy breath:
Thou diest to the crowd, but not to these,-

-

They see thee in the mist, and hear thee in the breeze!

H. Glassford Bell.

CLXXXI.

A TRYST WITH DEATH.

I am footsore and very weary,
But I travel to meet a Friend:
The way is long and dreary,

But I know that it soon must end.

He is travelling fast like the whirlwind,
And though I creep slowly on,
We are drawing nearer, nearer,
And the journey is almost done.

Thro' the heat of many summers,
Thro' many a springtime rain,
Thro' long autumns and weary winters,
I have hoped to meet him, in vain.

On the day of my birth he plighted
His kingly word to me:-

I have seen him in dreams so often,

That I know what his smile must be.

I have toiled thro' the sunny woodland,
Thro' fields that basked in the light;
And thro' the lone paths in the forest
I crept in the dead of night.

I will not fear at his coming,

Although I must meet him alone;
He will look in my eyes so gently,
And take my hand in his own :—

Like a dream all my toil will vanish,
When I lay my head on his breast-
But the journey is very weary,
And he only can give me rest!

Miss Procter.

CLXXXII.

THE OCEAN OF SHADOWS.

Rest we the weary hand upon the oar,

Draw in the sail, the light fades from the sky!
We near the silent sea, whose endless shore
Is lost in shadows of Eternity.

Rest we our hands, the sparkling foam-flakes fly,
In feathered flashes off our vessel's side,
Wild weeds and broken fragments floating by,
Tell of the wrecks in that unfathomed tide.

Why strive against the current, why in vain
Cast wistful glances backward o'er the gloom
Of heaving billows, seeking to restrain

The unknown power that drives us to our doom?
Can our tear-wearied eyes or anguished tones
Reach our lost loves across the waste of seas?
Ah no, the echoes of our dying moans

Pass onward with the rushing of the breeze.

Cold, faint, and weary, yet there was a time,

When light first dawned on the horizon's verge, The fresh sweet tides rolled swiftly in their prime, And youth passed gaily thro' the beating surge. Then sunlight seemed to kiss the billows' tips, The billows rose in dew-drops to the sun, The warm light glowed on sails of heaving ships, Bright was the morn, the race was yet to run.

Rest we-and since all labour is in vain,

Drop low the muffled oar, and with the hand Shadow the quailing eyes, and hide the pain And horror of that dimly-looming strand.

Mrs. Steele.

CLXXXIII.

THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.

There is, in the wide lone sea,
A spot unmarked, but holy;
For there the gallant and the free
In his ocean bed lies lowly.

Down, down, within the deep,
That oft to triumph bore him,

He sleeps a sound and pleasant sleep,
With the salt waves washing o'er him.

He sleeps serene, and safe

From tempest or from billow,

Where the storms, that high above him chafe,
Scarce rock his peaceful pillow.

The sea and him in death
They did not dare to sever:

It was his home while he had breath;
"Tis now his rest for ever.

Sleep on, thou mighty dead!

A glorious tomb they've found theeThe broad blue sky above thee spread, The boundless waters round thee.

No vulgar foot treads here;

No hand profane shall move thee; But gallant fleets shall proudly steer, And warriors shout above thee.

H. F. Lyte.

CLXXXIV.

THE MARTYRS OF THE CRIMEA.

Sitting in her sorrow lone,

Still our Mother makes her moan

For the Lost; and to the Martyrs' Hill our thoughts in mourning go.

O, that desert of the Dead,

Who lay down in their death-bed,

With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow!
Into glory had they rode

When the tide of triumph flowed,

Not a tear would we shed for the heroes lying low,
But our hearts break for the Dead,
In their desolate death-bed,

With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.
Praying breath rose white in air,

Eyes were set in a stern stare,

Hands were stretched for help that came not as they sank in silence low:

Our grand, our gracious Dead,

Who lay down in their death-bed,

With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.
Now the winter snows are gone,

And earth smiles as tho' the dawn

Had come up from it in flowers—such a light of grace doth glow

All about our darkened Dead,

Who lay down in their death-bed,

With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.
But never, never more,

Comes the Spring that will restore

To their own love, their own land, the dear ones lying low
On the Martyrs' Hill, our Dead
Who lay down in their death-bed,

With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.
Through a hundred battles red,

Shall their fame float overhead:

Into everlasting flowers shall their martyr memories blow. So we crown our glorious Dead,

Who lay down in their death-bed,

With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

Gerald Massey.