Oh if to us one precious thing,
And not to them, is given,
Kindness to them will be a wing
To carry it on to Heaven!
We are but two-the others sleep
Through death's untroubled night;
We are but two-oh let us keep
The link that binds us bright!
Heart leaps to heart the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;
That good old man-his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.
We in one mother's arms were locked-
Long be her love repaid!
In the same cradle we were rocked-
Round the same hearth we played.
Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and wo;
Let manhood keep alive the flame
Lit up so long ago.
We are but one-be that the bond
To hold us till we die!
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,
Till side by side we lie.
-CHARLES SPRAGUE.
"I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore-
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fireflies glance through the myrtle boughs?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies;
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze;
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it far away in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"
WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed: his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, oh Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all her song:
And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose :
He threw his bloodstained sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state:
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.
With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And, from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
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