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Yet oft I dream, that once a wife

Close in my heart was locked, And in the sweet repose of life

A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,-away !

Too long did it remain !
So long, that both by night and day

It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought ;

To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;

Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er,

I bathe mine eyes and see ; And wander through the world once more,

A youth so light and free.

Two locks,—and they are wondrous fair,

Left me that vision mild ;
The brown is from the mother's hair,

The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,

Pale grows the evening-red ;
And when the dark lock I behold,

I wish that I were dead.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.

NO HAY PÁJAROS EN LOS NIDOS ANTAÑO. — Spanish Prorero

The sun is bright,—the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear

The blue-bird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new ;--the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ;

There are no birds in last year's nest !

All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight ! And learn from the soft heavens above

The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For 0! it is not always May !

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest ; For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest !

THE RAINY DAY.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

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I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own,

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place, where human harvests grow !

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