Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow As she looked on the father of her

A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is prest,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance
The faltering echoes come,
Of the flying blast of trumpet

And the rattling roll of drum.

Then the grandsire speaks, in a whis

per,

"The end no man can see;

But we give him to his country,

Because those eyes of gentle mirth
Must some time cease my heart to

thrill,

Because the sweetest voice on earth
Sooner or later must be still,
Because its idol is unsure,

Shall my strong love the less endure?

Ah, no! let lovers breathe their sighs,

And roses bloom, and music sound, And passion burn in lips and eyes, And pleasure's merry world go round:

And we give our prayers to Let golden sunshine flood the sky,

Thee."

And let me love, or let me die!

But happy he, though scathed and lone,

Who sees afar love's fading wings Whose seared and blighted heart has known

The splendid agony it brings!
No life that is, no life to be
Can ever take the Past from me!

Red roses bloom for other livesYour withered leaves alone are mine;

Yet, not for all that Time survives Would I your heavenly gift resign

Now cold and dead, once warm and true,

The love that lived and died in you.

THE GOLDEN SILENCE.

WHAT though I sing no other song? What though I speak no other word?

Is

silence shame ? Is patience
wrong?

At least one song of mine was
heard:

One echo from the mountain air,

One ocean murmur, glad and freeOne sign that nothing grand or fair, In all this world was lost to me.

I will not wake the sleeping lyre;

I will not strain the chords of

thought:

The sweetest fruit of all desire

The mountain peaks that shine afar,
The silent stars, the pathless sea,
Are living signs of all we are,
And types of all we hope to be.

A DIRGE.

IN MEMORY OF POE.

COLD is the pæan honor sings,
And chill is glory's icy breath,
And pale the garland memory brings
To grace the iron doors of death.
Fame's echoing thunders, long and
loud,

The pomp of pride that decks the
pall,

The plaudits of the vacant crowd

One word of love is worth them all! With dew of grief our eyes are dim: Ah, bid the tear of sorrow start; And honor, in ourselves and him,

The great and tender human heart! Through many a night of want and

woe

Till kind disaster laid him low,
His frenzied spirit wandered wild,

And love reclaimed its wayward
child.

Through many a year his fame has grown,

Like midnight, vast; like starlight, sweet,

Till now his genius fills a throne, And homage makes his realm complete.

Comes its own way, and comes un- One meed of justice, long delayed. sought. One crowning grace his virtues crave!

Though all the bards of earth were Ah, take, thou great and injured

dead,

And all their music passed away,
What nature wishes should be said
She'll find the rightful voice to say!

Her heart is in the shimmering leaf,
The drifting cloud, the lonely sky,
And all we know of bliss or grief

She speaks, in forms that cannot
die.

shade,

The love that sanctifies the grave.

GEORGE WITHER.