And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice;
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.
And some in the camp to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.
And some in the gloomy convict-cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to sounds from the city borne;
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods.
So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Each unto life hath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.
But One must the sound be, and One the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
One, though to sever'd and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs?
By BARRY CORNWALL.
HITHER Come, at close of day,
And o'er this dust, sweet Mothers, pray!
A little infant lies within,
Who never knew the name of sin,
Belovéd, bright,—and all our own;
Like morning fair,—and sooner flown!
No leaves or garlands wither here,
Like those in foreign lands;
No marble hides our dear one's bier,
The work of alien hands:
The months it lived, the name it bore,
The silver telleth,—nothing more!
No more ;-yet Silence stalketh round
This vault so dim and deep;
And Death keeps watch without a sound,
Where all lie pale and sleep;
But palest here and latest hid,
Is he-beneath this coffin lid.
How fair he was-how very fair,
What dreams we pondered o'er,
Making his life so long and clear,
His fortunes flowing o'er;
Our hopes-(that he would happy be,
When we ourselves were old,)
The scenes we saw, or hoped to see-
They're soon and sadly told.
All was a dream!—It came and fled;
And left us here,—among the dead!
Pray, Mothers, pray, at close of day,
While we, sad parents, weep alway!
Pray, too (and softly be 't and long),
That all your babes, now fair and strong,
May blossom like—not like the rose,
For that doth fade when summer goes;
('Twas thus our pretty infant died,
The summer and its mother's pride !)
But, like some stern enduring tree,
That reacheth its green century,
May grow, may flourish-then decay,
After a long, calm, happy day,
Made happier by good deeds to men,
And hopes in heaven to meet again !
Pray!-From the happy prayer is due ;
While we-('tis all we now can do!)
Will check our tears, and pray with you.
I SAW a flower in a pathless wood,
Deep hidden in a mazy labyrinth
Of rank wild grass, briars, and prickly leaves.
'Twas a strange donjon for so fair a thing,
Dreary, and dark, and rude; but as I gazed
On its transparent hues and bending grace,
A golden sunbeam stealing from a cloud,
Alit on the green summit of the wood,
And lover-like, heeding no obstacles,
Shot through the clustering foliage and thick shade
Of interwoven boughs, through tangled brake,
Briar and branching fern, and tarried not
Till, having reached its bourn it smiling lay
On the white bosom of that lonely flower.
It was a pleasant sight to see how soon
The pretty prisoner raised its drooping head,
And gave back smile for smile, and opening wide
Its leaves that erst were folded, seem'd to woo
The shining guest still nearer to its heart:
It was a pleasant sight, and while I eyed
Their amorous dalliance, many a gentle thought
Arose unsummon'd. Fancy, too, put forth
Her wanton spells, and lured me far away,
A willing wanderer. I scarce can tell
Whither, so rapid was the sunny flight,
The merry elfin led; but once, methinks,
Twining the flow'ret in her rainbow wreath,
She bore it follow'd by the golden beam,
To bygone ages, and to distant climes,
And call'd it-Danæ.
FLORENCE GRAY.
By N. P. WILLIS.
And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles
Of Salamis and Egina lay hung
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea.
I had climb'd up th' Acropolis at morn,
And hours had fled as time will in a dream
Amid its deathless ruins-for the air
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes,
And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew,
I laid me down within a shadow deep
Of a tall column of the Parthenon,
And, in an absent idleness of thought,
I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base.
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!
I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon,
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr'd tent,
Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose
And silently stole forth, and by the brink
Of" golden Pactolus," where bathe his waters
The bases of Cybele's columns fair,
I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood
I mused upon the storied past awhile,
Watching the moon, that with the same mild eye
Had look'd upon the mighty Lydian kings
Sleeping around me-Croesus, who had heap'd
Within that mouldering portico his gold,
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring
Beneath yon swelling tumulus-and then
I loiter'd up the valley to a small
And humbler ruin where the undefiled
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept
Spotless; and crossing with a conscious awe
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye
It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight stood
"The angel of the church of Sardis" still!
And I again pass'd onward, and as dawn
Paled the bright morning star, I laid me down
Weary and sad beside the river's brink,
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn
Wrote with my finger in the "golden sands."
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome!
The dust is old upon my "sandal-shoon,"
And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved
From wild America to spicy Ind,
And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines
Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me,
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue,
And of dead kingdoms I recall the soul,
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored
My memory with thoughts that can allay
Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim,
And I am overladen in my years,
Minister to me. But when wearily
The mind gives over toiling, and, with eyes
Open but seeing not, and senses all
Lying awake within their chambers dim,
Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear-
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem,
Tell me, O memory, what shines so fair?
The face of the sweet child 1 knew at Rome!
In Wales, in Switzerland, and in some parts of France, flowers are planted by the hand of affection on the graves of departed relatives. It is a touching and beautiful custom, and, in the first-mentioned country, even the peasant may often be seen bending over the hallowed turf; and as he inserts into the sod some new plant or flower, he performs it with a feeling and a delicacy which do honour to his unsophisticated heart.
FAIR flowers in sweet succession should arise
Through the long, blooming year, above the grave;
Spring breezes will breathe gentlier o'er the turf,
And summer glance with mildest, meekest beam
To cherish Piety's dear offerings.
Rich sounds of Autumn ever shall be heard-
Mysterious, solemn music, waked by winds
To hymn the closing year! And, when the touch
Of sullen Winter blights the last, last gem
That bloom'd around the tomb-O there should be
The polish'd and enduring Laurel-there
|