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■O him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks /tf A various language; for his gayer hours >l She has a voice of gladness and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour comes like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart— Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice: Yet a few days and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all bis course; nor yet in the cold ground. Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements— To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone; nor could'st thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings, The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun: the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks,

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
YVill share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men —
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

William Cullen Bryant.

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"I remember, I remember
The house where I was born."

I remember, I remember I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white. The fir-trees dark and high;

The violets, and the lily-cups. I used to think their slender tops

Those flowers made of light! Were close against the sky.

The lilacs, where the robin built, It was a childish ignorance,

And where my brother set But now 'tis little joy

The laburnum on his birthday,— To know I'm farther off from heaven

The tree is living yet! Thau when I was a boy.

Thomas Hood.

IERE appears to exist a greater desire to live long than to live well. Measure by man's desires. he cannot live long enough; measure by his good deeds. and he has not lived long enough; measure by his evil deeds, and he has lived too long.




f>, child of sorrow, to the lonely wood. And company with trees, and rooks mul hills. ■ . ■ With creeping vines, with llow'rs. and gentle

That seem themselves to feel the musing mood, And feed with thought the charming solitude. There is a spirit in the groves that tills The heart with such an influence as steals The outward sense, and leaves the soul imbued With pow'r to hold communion witli the dead; And ministering angels here may tell Some happy story of the spirit home: Some lov'd one gone, for whom the heart has bled, May whisper thoughts the sad unrest to quell, And point to realms of joy and bid thee come.

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Death in Lift-! O grave where grim Despair Hath buried hope, and ev*ry pleasing dream Of what the years may bring! The titful gleam Of light that lingers yet, but points me where A glory might have been; and shapes of fear Look through the gloom, till my surroundings seem The work of some malignant thing, supreme O'er all my pow'rs to plan, to strive, to bear. Ere yet high noon of days, bereft of strength To toil for those committed to my hand, And doomed to see no more a smiling sun, I find that all is bitterness at length. Yet, (}od hath care of us; here let me stand. And say, with steadfast heart. -'His will be done."

Ed. Poktek Tuompson.


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