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My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widowed race be run ;
Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.
That trills beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry. When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass. At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise ! If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below! Say only this : A tender bud,
That tried to blossom in the snow,
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
THE PEACE OF SORROW. Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only through the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground :
Calm and deep peace on this high wold
And all the silvery gossamers
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main :
Unconscious of the sliding hour,
Bare of the body, might it last,
And silent traces of the past Be all the color of the flower :
So then were nothing lost to man;
So that still garden of the souls
In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began;
DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain ; a favorable speed
Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex.
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above ;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love ;
And love will last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time,
And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul.
PERSONAL RESURRECTION. That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all
The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul,
Is faith as vague as all unsweet :
The fame is quenched that I foresaw, Eternal form shall still divide
The head hath missed an earthly wreath : The eternal soul from all beside ;
I curse not nature, no, nor death; And I shall know him when we meet :
For nothing is that errs from law. And we shall sit at endless feast,
We pass; the path that each man trod Enjoying each the other's good :
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : What vaster dream can hit the mood
What fame is left for human deeds Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least
In endless age? It rests with God. Upon the last and sharpest height,
O hollow wraith of dying fame, Before the spirits fade away,
Fade wholly, while the soul exults, Some landing-place to clasp and say, .
And self-enfolds the large results “Farewell! We lose ourselves in light."
Of force that would have forged a name. SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP.
THE POET'S TRIBUTE.
What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie No inner vileness that we dread ?
Foreshortened in the tract of time?
These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box, And I be lessened in his love ?
May serve to curl a maiden's locks :
Or when a thousand moons shall wane
There must be wisdom with great Death : And, passing, turn the page that tells The dead shall look me through and through. A grief, then changed to something else, Be near us when we climb or fall :
Sung by a long-forgotten mind. Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
But what of that? My darkened ways With larger other eyes than ours,
Shall ring with music all the same; To make allowance for us all.
To breathe my loss is more than fame, MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.
To utter love more sweet than praise.
ALFRED TENNYSON. WHEN on my bed the moonlight falls,
I know that in thy place of rest,
THEY ARE ALL GONE.
They are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here ! Along the letters of thy name,
Their very memory is fair and bright, And o'er the number of thy years.
And my sad thoughts doth clear ; The mystic glory swims away;
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, From off my bed the moonlight dies : Like stars upon some gloomy grove, — And, closing eaves of wearied eyes,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray :
After the sun's remove. And then I know the mist is drawn
I see them walking in an air of glory, A lucid veil from coast to coast,
Whose light doth trample on my days, – And in the dark church, like a ghost, My days which are at best but dull and hoary, Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy hope ! and high humility, —
High as the heavens above ! So little done, such things to be,
These are your walks, and you have showed themi How know I what had need of thee,
me For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? ! To kindle my cold love.
0, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day ; 'T was an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear !
This sad, sad year.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
"ONLY A YEAR.”
I CANNOT make him dead !
His fair sunshiny head
Is ever bounding round my study chair ;
Yet when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes, — he is not there !
I walk my parlor floor,
And, through the open door,
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
To give the boy a call ;
I thread the crowded street;
A satchelled lad I meet,
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; Of all that beauty, life, and joy
And, as he's running by, Remain alone!
Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that — he is not there !
I know his face is hid
Under the coffin lid; Moves calmly on.
Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair ; The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
My hand that marble felt; Above that head ;
O'er it in prayer I knelt ; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
| Yet my heart whispers that -- he is not there! Says he is dead.
I cannot make him dead ! No pause or hush of merry birds,
When passing by the bed, That sing above,
So long watched over with parental care, Tells us how coldly sleeps below
My spirit and my eye The form we love.
Seek him inquiringly,
Before the thought comes that – he is not there! Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? What hast thou seen,
When, at the cool gray break What visions fair, what glorious life?
Of day, from sleep I wake, Where thou hast been ?
With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy, The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong!
To Him who gave my boy; 'Twixt us and thee;
Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! The mystic veil! when shall it fall, That we may see?
When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose, Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; But present still,
Whate'er I may be saying, And waiting for the coming hour
I am in spirit praying Of God's sweet will.
| For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there !
Not there ! -- Where, then, is he?
The sun sets, the shadow flies, The form I used to see
The gourd consumes, – and man he dies ! Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press
Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Upon that cast-off dress,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the pearléd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span, He lives ; nor, to the last,
Or like the singing of a swan, — Of seeing him again will I despair ;
E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath, In dreams I see him now;
Is here, now there, in life and death. — And, on his angel brow,
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan 's near death, - man's life is done! Father, thy chastening rod
SIMON WASTELL So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,
Meeting at thy right hand, i 'T will be our heaven to find that he is there !
| IF THOU WILT EASE THINE HEART. JOHN PIERPONT.
Of love, and all its smart, —
Then sleep, dear, sleep!
And not a sorrow Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
Hang any tear on your eyelashes ; The bridall of the earth and skie:
Lie still and deep, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes For thou must die.
The rim o'.the sun to-morrow,
In eastern sky.
But wilt thou cure thine heart
Of love, and all its smart,
Then die, dear, die ! Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
'T is deeper, sweeter, A box where sweets compacted lie,
Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming My musick shows ye have your closes,
With folded eye ;
And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love's stars, thou 'lt meet her
In eastern sky.
Then chiefly lives.
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. -
He who hath bent him o'er the dead