And when I found his home, And begged him on my bended knee To bring his book and come with me, Mother! he would not come.

"I told him how you dying lay, And could not go in peace away

Without the minister;

I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, But O! my heart was fit to break

Mother! he would not stir.

"So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back, fast as fast could be,

To come again to you;

And here close by-this squire I met, Who asked (so mild!) what made me fret ; And when I told him true,

"I will go with you, child,' he said, 'God sends me to this dying bed ’—

Mother, he's here, hard by." While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye.

The bridle on his neck hung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee,
Pressed close his bonny bay;
A statelier man-a statelier steed-
Never on greensward paced, I rede,

Than those stood there that day.

So, while the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms, and in his look
Something that, like a sermon-book,
Preached "All is vanity."

But when the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,

He stepped to where she lay; And, kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, "I am a minister

My sister! let us pray."

And well, withouten book or stole, (God's words were printed on his soul!) Into the dying ear

He breathed, as 't were an angel's strain, The things that unto life pertain,

And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed, regenerate—

Of God's most blest decree, That not a single soul should die Who turns repentant, with the cry "Be merciful to me."

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, Endured but for a little while

In patience, faith, and loveSure, in God's own good time, to be Exchanged for an eternity

Of happiness above.

Then as the spirit ebbed away—
He raised his hands and eyes to pray
That peaceful it might pass;

And then-the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard, and they knelt, every one,
Close round on the green grass.

703

Such was the sight their wandering eyes Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,

Who reined their coursers back, Just as they found the long astray, Who, in the heat of chase that day,

Had wandered from their track.

But each man reined his pawing steed, And lighted down, as if agreed,

In silence at his side; And there, uncovered all, they stoodIt was a wholesome sight and good That day for mortal pride.

For of the noblest of the land

Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band;
And, central in the ring,

By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed king.

ROBERT AND CAROLINE Southey.

KING DEATH.

KING Death was a rare old fellow!
He sat where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine.

Hurrah! for the coal black wine!

There came to him many a maiden
Whose eyes had forgot to shine,
And widows, with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his sleepy wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

The scholar left all his learning;

The poet his fancied woes;

And the beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose.

Sages and sire, the child, and manhood strong. Shed not one tear; expend no sorrowing sound;

For O, Death stands to welcome thee and me; And life hath in its breath a deeper mystery. I hear a bell that tolls an empty note,

The mourning anthem and the sobbing prayer;

A grave fresh-opened, where the friends de

vote

DEATH.

BARRY CORNWALL.

BENEATH the endless surges of the deep,
Whose green content o'erlaps them evermore,
A host of mariners perpetual sleep,
Too hushed to heed the wild commotion's

roar;

The emerald weeds glide softly o'er their bones,

And wash them gently 'mid the rounded

stones.

No epitaph have they to tell their tale— Their birth-place, age, and story all are lostYet rest they deeply as, within the vale, Those sheltered bodies by the smooth slates

crost;

And countless tribes of men lie on the hills, And human blood runs in the crystal rills.

The air is full of men who once enjoyed
The healthy element nor looked beyond:
Many, who all their mortal strength em-
ployed

In human kindness-of their brothers fond;
And many more who counteracted fate
And battled in the strife of common hate.
Profoundest sleep enwraps them all around-

fair

And beautiful as morning's silver light, And stars which throw their clear fire on the night.

She is not here who smiled within these eyes Warmer than Spring's first sunbeam through

the pale

And tearful air.-Resist these flatteries;-
O lay her silently alone, and in this vale
Shall the sweet winds sing better dirge for her,
And the fine early flowers her death-clothes
minister.

O Death! thou art the palace of our hopes,
The storehouse of our joys, great labor's end;
Thou art the bronzed key which swiftly opes
The coffers of the past; and thou shalt send
Such trophies to our hearts as sunny days
When life upon its golden harpstring plays.
And when a nation mourns a silent voice
That long entranced its ear with melody,
How must thou in thy inmost soul rejoice
Το wrap such treasure in thy boundless sea;
And thou wert dignified if but one soul
Had been enfolded in thy twilight stole.

Triumphal arches circle o'er thy deep,
Dazzling with jewels, radiant with content;
In thy vast arms the sons of genius sleep;
The carvings of thy spheral monument,
Bearing no recollection of dim time
Within thy green and most perennial prime.
And might I sound a thought of thy decree,
How lapsed the dreary earth in fragrant plea-

sure,

And hummed along o'er life's contracted sea, Like the swift petrel, mimicking the wave's

measure;

But though I long, the sounds will never come, For in thy majesty my lesser voice is dumb.

LIFE.

Thou art not anxious of thy precious fame,
But comest like the clouds soft stealing on;
Thou soundest in a careless key the name
Of him who to thy boundless treasury is won;
And yet he quickly cometh-for to die
Is ever gentlest to both low and high.
Thou therefore hast humanity's respect;
They build thee tombs upon the green hill-
side,

And will not suffer thee the least neglect,
And tend thee with a desolate sad pride;

For thou art strong, O Death! though sweetly so,

And in thy lovely gentleness sleeps woe.

O what are we, who swim upon this tide
Which we call life, yet to thy kingdom come?
Look not upon us till we chasten pride,
And preparation make for thy high home;
And, might we ask, make measurely approach,
And not upon these few smooth hours ep-
croach.

I come, I come, think not I turn away!

Fold round me thy gray robe! I stand to feel

The setting of my last frail earthly day.
I will not pluck it off, but calmly kneel-
For I am great as thou art, though not thou,
And thought as with thee dwells upon my
brow.

Ah! might I ask thee, spirit, first to tend Upon those dear ones whom my heart has found,

And supplicate thee, that I might them lend A light in their last hours, and to the ground Consign them still-yet think me not too weak

Come to me now, and thou shalt find me meek.

Then let us live in fellowship with thee,
And turn our ruddy cheeks thy kisses pale,
And listen to thy song as minstrelsy,
And still revere thee, till our hearts' throbs
fail-

Sinking within thy arms as sinks the sun Below the farthest hills, when his day's work is done.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING,

SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying;
Come-tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles?-a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep

The loss of leisure;

But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same;
We love for ever;
We laugh, yet few we shame-

The gentle never.

Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then-hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever!

LIFE.

705

BARRY CORNWALL

WE are born; we laugh; we weep;
We love; we droop; we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?
Why do we live or die?
Who knows that secret deep?

Alas, not I!

Why doth the violet spring

Unseen by human eye? Why do the radiant seasons bring Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? Why do our fond hearts cling

To things that die?

We toil-through pain and wrong;
We fight-and fly;

We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.

life! is all thy song
"Endure and-die?"

BARRY CORNWALL.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act-act in the living present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time

Footprints that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered
To a holy, calm delight—

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light

Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door-
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine; And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

707

MAN'S MORTALITY.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,

Or like the gourd which Jonas had-
E'en such is man;-whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes-and man he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan—
E'en such is man;-who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.—

The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended,

The hour is short, the span is long,

The swan's near death-man's life is done!

SONNET.

Or mortal glory O soon darkened ray!
O winged joys of man, more swift than wind!
O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!
O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments
blind!

Lo, in a flash that light is gone away
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each
mind,

And, with that sun from whence it came combined,

Now makes more radiant Heaven's eternal day.

Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears; Let widowed Music only roar and groan; Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres,

For dwelling place on earth for thee is none! Death hath thy temple razed, Love's empire foiled,

The world of honor, worth, and sweetness spoiled.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

LINES ON A SKELETON.

SIMON WASTELL

LIFE.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood-
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past—and man forgot!

HENRY KING.

BEHOLD this ruin!-'T was a skull
Once of ethereal spirits full!

This narrow cell was life's retreat;
This space was thought's mysterious seat;
What beauteous pictures filled this spot-
What dreams of pleasures long forgot!
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void;-
If social love that eye employed,
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dew of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be forever bright
When stars and suns have lost their light.

Here, in this silent cavern, hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue: