Men think it is an awful sight
To see a soul just set adrift
On that drear voyage from whose night
The ominous shadows never lift;
But 't is more awful to behold

A helpless infant newly born, Whose little hands unconscious hold The keys of darkness and of morn.

Mine held them once; I flung away

Those keys that might have open set The golden sluices of the day,

But clutch the keys of darkness yet;-
I hear the reapers singing go

Into God's harvest; I, that might
With them have chosen, here below
Grope shuddering at the gates of night.

O glorious Youth, that once was mine!
O high ideal! all in vain

Ye enter at this ruined shrine

Whence worship ne'er shall rise again; The bat and owl inhabit here,

The snake nests in the altar-stone, The sacred vessels moulder near,The image of the God is gone.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

Lines Written in a Bible.

W!

ITHIN this awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries:
O happiest they, of human race,
To whom our God has given grace
To read, to hear, to seek, to pray,
To lift the latch and force the
way
!
But better they had ne'er been born
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn!

Song of the Silent Land.

NTO the silent land!

INTO

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand;

Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither!

Into the silent land?

LORD BYRON,

383

Shall bear hope's tender blossoms

Into the silent land!

Into the silent land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions and
Of beauteous souls! The future's pledge and band!

Who in life's battle firm doth stand

O land! O land!

For all the broken-hearted,

The mildest herald by our fate allotted
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great departed--
Into the silent land!

(Translated by H. W. LONGFELLOW.)

J. G. VON SALIS.

The Future Life.

How

OW shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain,
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again

In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there!
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,

Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 385

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll;

And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-
The wisdom which is love--till I become

Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?
WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

Lines written in a Churchyard.

"It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."

METHINKS it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!
Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pen him below
In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before ;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which

wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride?
To the trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches?

Alas, 't is in vain!
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:
The treasures are squandered again;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveler here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?—the dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve.
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.