TO AN EARLY FRIEND.

I CANNOT think that thou shouldst pass away,
Whose life to mine is an eternal law,

A piece of nature that can have no flaw,
A new and certain sunrise every day;
But, if thou art to be another ray
About the Sun of life, and art to live
Free from all of thee that was fugitive,

The debt of Love I will more fully pay,

Not downcast with the thought of thee so high,
But rather raised to be a nobler man,

And more divine in my humanity,

As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan

My life, are lighted by a purer being,

And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing.

THE FATHERLAND.

WHERE is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
O yes! his fatherland must be,
As the blue heaven, wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is,

Where God is God, and man is man?
Doth he not claim a broader span
For the soul's love of home than this?

O yes! his fatherland must be,

As the blue heaven, wide and free!

LOWELL.

Where'er a human heart doth wear

Joy's myrtle-wreath, or sorrow's gyves,
Where'er a human spirit strives
After a life more true and fair,

There is the true man's birth-place grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where'er a single slave doth pine,
Where'er one man may help another-
Thank God for such a birthright, brother—
That spot of earth is thine and mine!
There is the true man's birth-place grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!

LOWELL.

A FUNERAL.

SLOWLY and softly let the music go,

As ye wind upwards to the gray church-tower;
Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low-
Tread lightly on the pathside daisy flower,
For she you carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunned drops of silver dew;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the flowerful mould,
Weep with her one brief hour; then turn away-
Go to hope's prison-and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day

Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old

And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.

Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast :

:

She heard the call and rose with willing feet:
But, thinking it not otherwise than meet

For such a bidding to put on her best,

She is gone from us for a few short hours
Into her bridal closet, there to wait

For the unfolding of the palace gate

That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.

We have not seen her yet; though we have been

Full often to her chamber door, and oft

Have listened underneath the postern green,

And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft: But she hath made no answer, and the day

From the clear west is fading fast away.

HYMN FOR ALL SAINTS' DAY.

STAND up before your God,

You army bold and bright,

Saints, martyrs, and confessors,

In your robes of white;

The church below doth challenge you

To an act of praise,

Ready with mirth in all the earth
A joyful song to raise.

Stand up before your God,

In beautiful array,

Make ready all your instruments

The while we mourn and pray,

ALFORD.

For we must stay to mourn and pray;

Some prelude to our song,

For the fear of death has clogged our breath,

And our foes are swift and strong.

Are hushed from all alarm,

Out through the grave and gate of death
Ye have passed into the calm;
Your fight is done, your victory won,
With peril, and toil, and blood,
Among the slain, on the battle-plain
We buried ye where ye stood.

Stand up before your God,

Although we cannot hear

The new song he hath taught you

With our fleshly ear;

Yet still we burn that hymn to learn,

And from the church below,

Even while we sing, on heavenward wing,

Some happy souls shall go.

Ye are before your God,

But we press onward still,

The soldiers of his army,

The servants of his will;

A captive band in foreign land

For ages long we've been,

But our dearest theme, and our fondest dream,

Is the home we have never seen

We soon shall see our God,

The hour is waxing on,

The dayspring from on high has risen,
And the night is past and gone;
The light of earth has had its birth,
And it shall have its doom;

The church on earth are few in birth,
But many in the tomb.

ALFORD.

BEAUTY IN DEATH.

STILL as a moonlight ruin is thy form,

Or meekness of carved marble, that hath prayed
For ages on a tomb; serenely laid

As some fair vessel that hath braved the storm
And passed into her haven, when the noise
That cheered her home hath all to silence died,
Her crew have shoreward parted, and no voice
Troubles her sleeping image in the tide.
Sister and saint, thou art a closed book,
Whose holy printing none may yet reveal;
A few days thou art granted us to look
On thy clasped binding; till that One unseal,
The Lamb, alone found worthy, and above
Thou teach sweet lessons to the King of Love.

MEETING AGAIN.

YES, we shall meet again, my cherished friend;

Not in the beautiful autumnal bowers,

ALFORD.