These memories and these sorrows all shall fade,
And pass away, and fresher memories
And newer sorrows come and dwell awhile
Beside thy borders, and, in turn, depart.

On glide thy waters, till at last they flow
Beneath the windows of the populous town,
And all night long give back the gleam of lamps,
And glimmer with the trains of light that stream
From halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer ray
Touches thy surface from the silent room
In which they tend the sick, or gather round
The dying; and a slender, steady beam
Comes from the little chamber, in the roof
Where, with a feverous crimson on her cheek,
The solitary damsel, dying, too,

Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale.
There, close beside the haunts of revel, stand
The blank, unlighted windows, where the poor,
In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn.
There, drowsily, on the half-conscious ear
Of the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf,
Falls the soft ripple of the waves that strike
On the moored bark; but guiltier listeners
Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who steal
From shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and start
If other sounds than thine are in the air.

Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bring Pollution to thy channel and make foul

Thy once clear current; summon thy quick waves
And dimpling eddies; linger not, but haste,
With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep,
There to be tossed by shifting winds and rocked
By that mysterious force which lives within
The sea's immensity, and wields the weight
Of its abysses, swaying to and fro

The billowy mass, until the stain, at length,
Shall wholly pass away, and thou regain
The crystal brightness of thy mountain-springs.

THE LIFE THAT IS.

THOU, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain,

Oh welcome, welcome back to life's free breathTo life's free breath and day's sweet light again, From the chill shadows of the gate of death!

For thou hadst reached the twilight bound between
The world of spirits and this grosser sphere;
Dimly by thee the things of earth were seen,
And faintly fell earth's voices on thine ear.

And now, how gladly we behold, at last,

The wonted smile returning to thy brow! The very wind's low whisper, breathing past, In the light leaves, is music to thee now.

Thou wert not weary of thy lot; the earth

Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight;
Still clung thy loves about the household hearth,
And sweet was every day's returning light.

Then welcome back to all thou wouldst not leave,

To this grand march of seasons, days, and hours; The glory of the morn, the glow of eve,

The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers;

To eyes on which thine own delight to rest;
To voices which it is thy joy to hear;
To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best,

The willing tasks of love, that made life dear.

Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers Offered where crowds in reverent worship come, Or softly breathed amid the tender cares

And loving inmates of thy quiet home.

Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land,
Even from its verge; the mysteries opened there
Are what the faithful heart may understand
In its still depths, yet words may not declare.

And well I deem, that, from the brighter side
Of life's dim border, some o'erflowing rays
Streamed from the inner glory, shall abide

Upon thy spirit through the coming days.

Twice wert thou given me; once in thy fair prime,
Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met,
And all the blossoms of that hopeful time

Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set.

And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again

Given back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong, From the drear realm of sickness and of pain

When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long.

Now may we keep thee from the balmy air
And radiant walks of heaven a little space,
Where He, who went before thee to prepare
For His meek followers, shall assign thy place.
CASTELLAMARE, May, 1858.

SONG.

66 THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS."

THESE prairies glow with flowers,

These groves are tall and fair,
The sweet lay of the mocking-bird

Rings in the morning air;

And yet I pine to see

My native hill once more,

And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp

Beside its cottage-door.

And he, for whom I left

My native hill and brook,

Alas, I sometimes think I trace

A coldness in his look!