Changeless, alone, beneath the large white dome
Of Immortality.

I pause and think

Among these walks lined by the frequent tombs;
For it is very wonderful. Afar

The populous city lifts its tall, bright spires,
And snowy sails are glancing on the bay,
As if in merriment, - but here all sleep;
They sleep, these calm, pale people of the past:
Spring plants her rosy feet on their dim homes,
They sleep! Sweet Summer comes and calls, and calls
With all her passionate poetry of flowers
Wed to the music of the soft south-wind,
They sleep! The lonely Autumn sits and sobs
Between the cold white tombs, as if her heart
Would break, they sleep! Wild Winter comes and

chants

Majestical the mournful sagas learned

Far in the melancholy North, where God
Walks forth alone upon the desolate seas,

They slumber still! Sleep on, O passionless dead! Ye make our world sublime: ye have a power

And majesty the living never hold.

Here Avarice shall forget his den of gold!
Here Lust his beautiful victim, and hot Hate
His crouching foe. Ambition here shall lean
Against Death's shaft, veiling the stern, bright eye
That, overbold, would take the height of gods,
And know Fame's nothingness. The sire shall come,
The matron and the child, through many years,
To this fair spot, whether the pluméd hearse

Moves slowly through the winding walks, or Death
For a brief moment pauses: all shall come
To feel the touching eloquence of graves.
And therefore it was well for us to clothe
The place with beauty. No dark terror here
Shall chill the generous tropic of the soul,
But Poetry and her starred comrade Art
Shall make the sacred country of the dead
Magnificent. The fragrant flowers shall smile
Over the low, green graves; the trees shall shake
Their soul-like cadences upon the tombs;
The little lake, set in a paradise

Of wood, shall be a mirror to the moon
What time she looks from her imperial tent
In long delight at all below; the sea

Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe
Over dead nations, while calm sculptures stand
On every hill, and look like spirits there
That drink the harmony. Oh, it is well!
Why should a darkness scowl on any spot
Where man grasps immortality? Light, light,
And art, and poetry, and eloquence,

And all that we call glorious are its dower.

William Wallace.

Callicoon, the River, N. Y.

THE CALLICOON IN AUTUMN.

A CHARMING forest stream of Sullivan County, uniting with the Willewemoc and flowing into the Delaware.

NAR in the forest's heart, unknown

FAR

Except to sun and breeze,

Where Solitude her dreaming throne
Has held for centuries;

Chronicled by the rings and moss
That tell the flight of years across
The seamed and columned trees,
This lovely streamlet glides along
With tribute of eternal song!

Now, stealing through its thickets deep
In which the wood-duck hides
Now, picturing in its basin sleep

Its green, pool-hollowed sides;

Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps,
There, in some wild abyss it sweeps,
And, foaming, hoarsely chides:
Then slides so still, its gentle swell
Scarce ripples round the lily's bell.

Nature, in her autumnal dress
Magnificent and gay,

Displays her brightest loveliness,
Though nearest her decay;