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TO THE DEAD.

135

IV.

One saith who knew thee well, who loved thee true,
Thou art to him an influence benign,
Like gentlest wind in a close grove of pine,
Known but by sound and fragrance breathed there-

through.
Another saith he feels thee draw the clue
Thou here didst hold with us, a soul divine,
A thing of light, and blent with day's clear shine,
While we ’mid thinning darkness still pursue.
Thy lesser loves have cheer; but what to me
Who loved thee most, whom thou didst love past all,
Hast thou no voice to send across the deep ?
No voice I hear, — I turn to God from thee:
God's pity! when Death's sundering blow doth fall
Do greatest loves the strictest silence keep ?

MIGRATION,

THE caged bird, that all the autumn day
In quiet dwells, when falls the autumn eve
Seeks how its liberty it may achieve,
Beats at the wires and its poor wings doth fray:
For now desire of migrant change holds sway ;
This summer-vacant land it longs to leave,
While its free peers on tireless pinions cleave
The haunted twilight, speeding south their way.
Not otherwise than as the prisoned bird,
We here dwell careless of our captive state
Until light dwindles, and the year grows late,
And answering note to note no more is heard ;
Then, our loved fellows flown, the soul is stirred
To follow them where summer has no date.

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