That place is silent, dark, and cold,
Nor pride nor passion liveth there;
The miser there forgets his gold,
The feeble meeteth with the bold,

And all are free from pain and care. Death stalketh here with despot tread, And roams amid his dreary hall With silent pomp and veiled head, Through phalanx of the sleeping dead, Begirt with darkness for their pall. Hither each swift revolving year

Its countless hosts of victims brings; And here, bewept with mourner's tear, Continual comes the sable bier,

To leave its human offerings. This is the grave-the house of doomThe place of darkness still and lone; The gate of entrance through the tomb To where immortal spirits bloom,

And light enshrines Jehovah's throne. If, mortal, thou wouldst find the way Whence light to all is freely given, With Jesus watch, with Jesus pray, So shall thy night be changed to day, And darkness here be light in heaven.

ABSALO M.

WILLIS.

THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled

1

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream: the willow-
leaves,

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,

That it was fashioned for a happier world!

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such a very mockery-how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep

tones

Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom

For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
The proud, bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherished him-for him he poured,
In agony that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him: and the jewelled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died: then throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back

The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe!-

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could be mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee,
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet "my father," from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft wind flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee.--
And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!

He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

TO THE RAINBOW.

CAMPBELL.

TRIUMPHANT arch, that fill'st the sky,
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art.

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green, undeluged earth,

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshen'd fields, The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms downl

As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,