That place is silent, dark, and cold, 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 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 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 it, like the still eeper's pulse. lulling tide, nd the long stems, ke a gentle nurse, gave way, tudes, to rest. f nature tells, Suffering, happier world! weary. He had fled The light wind e bared his brow - he had worn he had not felt until now. the fresh green bank, s; and, as the sun among them there, s hands to pray. when bitter thoughts r utterance, of courtesy -how much - itself in prayer! voice went up prayed for those hield; and his dee For Absalom For his estranged, misguided Absalom- The heart that cherished him-for him he poured, 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 And left him with his dead. The king stood still The pall from the still features of his child, "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, "The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush And the dark tresses to the soft wind flung; "And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, tures of his child, mim, and broke forth e of woe! at thou shouldst die ! and I am chill, tried to press thee, pulses thrill, earning to caress thee, -ther," from these dumb =alom! . I shall hear the gush cken, and my heart, nk its last deep token! hard to give thee up, le slumber on thee.ould drink the cup, ness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself TO THE RAINBOW. CAMPBELL. TRIUMPHANT arch, that fill'st the sky, Still seem as to my childhood's sight, Can all that Optics teach unfold When Science from Creation's face And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, When o'er the green, undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, And when its yellow lustre smiled Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 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, As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, |