Angel, my angel, the old man's hand | So I look up as I follow the tone, Knoweth thy silver way. 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 climb- Till I mingle thy tone with the Up with my dim old eyes, And I wonder if organs have angels alone, Or if, as my fancy might almost surmise, Each man in his heart folds an angel with wings, An angel that slumbers, but vakens When thrilled by the touch that is Time from her form hath ta'en away His touch of thought hath dignified The faded form is often mark'd But she hath been a happy wife: May proudly claim the smile that The trial of his truth; A sense of slight — of loneliness She look'd upon her raven locks,- For banquet or for ball; They brought back thoughts of early youth, Ere she had learn'd to check, With artificial wreaths, the curls That sported o'er her neck. [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 shat tered 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, Nor lessen of his life the little span. Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time, Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime. 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 The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then. That night when the love yet unspoken. Leaped up to his lips-when lowmurmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. He dashes off tears that are welling. And gathers his gun closer up to its place. As if to keep down the heartswelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree. The footstep is lagging and weary; of the dead · The picket's off duty forever! 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 In greatness is no Here's an acre sown indeed Here are sands, ignoble things, A happy mother with her fair-faced girls, In whose sweet spring again her youth she sees, All beauty that is throned in woman- | With shout and dance and laugh and bound and song, Stripping in autumn orchards, laden trees. |