Knoweth thy silver way. Angel, my angel, the old man's hand | So I look up as I follow the tone, I loose thy lips from their silenceband And over thy heart-strings my fingers play, While the song peals forth from thy mellow throat, And my spirit climbs on the climbing note, Till I mingle thy tone with the tones away Over the day. [From The Minstrel.] DEATH AND resurrection. WHERE now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool, And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crowned? Ah! see, the unsightly slime, and sluggish pool, Have all the solitary vale embrowned; Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound, The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray. And hark! the river bursting every mound, Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway Uproots the grove, and rolls the shattered rocks away. Yet such the destiny of all on earth: So flourishes and fades majestic man. Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, And fostering gales a while the nursling fan. O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan, Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, And be it so. Let those deplore their doom Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn; But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return? Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed? Soon shall the orient with new luste burn, And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive? Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live? Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain? No: Nor lessen of his life the little span. Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive, man's majestic beauty bloom again, Old age comes on apace to ravage all Bright_through the eternal year of the clime. Love's triumphant reign. quiet along the Potomac tonight, No sound save the rush of the river; There's only the sound of the lone While soft falls the dew on the face sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the of the dead The picket's off duty forever! WEIGHING THE BABY. 'How many pounds does the baby Baby who came but a month ago? How many pounds from the crowning curl To the rosy point of the restless toe?" Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot, Tenderly guides the swinging weight, And carefully over his glasses peers To read the record, "only eight." Softly the echo goes around: The father laughs at the tiny girl; The fair young mother sings the words, While grandmother smooths the golden curl. And stooping above the precious thing, Nestles a kiss within a prayer, Murmuring softly "Little one, Grandfather did not weigh you fair." ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. MORTALITY, behold and fear Where from their pulpits seal'd with They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed Here are sands, ignoble things, WILLIAM COX BENNETT. THE SEASONS. A BLUE-EYED child that sits amid the noon, O'erhung with a laburnum's drooping sprays, Singing her little songs, while softly round Along the grass the chequered sunshine plays. All beauty that is throned in womanhood Pacing a summer garden's fountained walks, That stoops to smooth a glossy spaniel down To hide her flushing cheek from one who talks. A happy mother with her fair-faced girls, In whose sweet spring again her youth she sees, With shout and dance and laugh and bound and song, Stripping in autumn orchards, laden trees. |