DREAMS AND REALITIES.

O ROSAMOND, thou fair and good
And perfect flower of womanhood!

Thou royal rose of June!

Why didst thou droop before thy time? Why wither in the first sweet prime? Why didst thou die so soon?

For, looking backward through my tears On thee, and on my wasted years,

I cannot choose but say,

If thou hadst lived to be my guide, Or thou hadst lived and I had died, 'T were better far to-day.

O child of light, O golden head!
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed
Upon life's lonely way,

Why didst thou vanish from our sight?
Could they not spare my little light
From heaven's unclouded day?

O friend so true, O friend so good!-
Thou one dream of my maidenhood,
That gave youth all its charms,
What had I done, or what hadst thou,
That, through this lonesome world till now,
We walk with empty arms?

And yet this poor soul had been fed
With all it loved and coveted;

Had life been always fair,

Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart, That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, Forever tremble there?

If still they kept their earthly place,
The friends I held in my embrace,

And gave to death, alas!

Could I have learned that clear, calm faith
That looks beyond the bonds of death,
And almost longs to pass?

Sometimes, I think, the things we see Are shadows of the things to be;

That what we plan we build ; That every hope that hath been crossed, And every dream we thought was lost, In heaven shall be fulfilled;

That even the children of the brain
Have not been born and died in vain,
Though here unclothed and dumb;
But on some brighter, better shore
They live, embodied evermore,
And wait for us to come.

And when on that last day we rise,
Caught up between the earth and skies,
Then shall we hear our Lord

Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death,
Henceforth, according to thy faith,
Shall be thy faith's reward.

PHOEBE CARY.

THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE.

I SAT an hour to-day, John,
Beside the old brook-stream,

Where we were school-boys in old time,
When manhood was a dream ;

The brook is choked with fallen leaves, The pond is dried away,

I scarce believe that you would know The dear old place to-day.

The school-house is no more, John,
Beneath our locust-trees,

The wild rose by the window's side
No more waves in the breeze;
The scattered stones look desolate;
The sod they rested on

Has been plowed up by stranger hands,
Since you and I were gone.

The chestnut-tree is dead, John,
And what is sadder now,
The grapevine of that same old swing
Hangs on the withered bough.

I read our names upon the bark,
And found the pebbles rare
Laid up beneath the hollow side,
As we had piled them there.

Beneath the grass-grown bank, John,
I looked for our old spring,
That bubbled down the alder-path
Three paces from the swing;
The rushes grow upon the brink,
The pool is black and bare,
And not a foot for many a day,
It seems, has trodden there.

I took the old blind road, John,
That wandered up the hill,
'Tis darker than it used to be,
And seems so lone and still
The birds yet sing upon the boughs

Where once the sweet grapes hung, But not a voice of human kind Where all our voices rung.

I sat me on the fence, John, That lies as in old time,

A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill,

'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song,
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below,
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

THE path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Through four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow.

But where the path we walked began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow feared of man;

Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapped thee formless in the fold, And dulled the murmur on thy lip.

When each by turns was guide to each,
And Fancy light from Fancy caught,
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought
Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ;

And all we met was fair and good,

And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood;

I know that this was Life, the track Whereon with equal feet we fared; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back.

Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still;
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!'
"Gifts!" cried the friend; he took and hold-
ing it,

High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,

Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar !

LEIGH HUNT.

WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER.

We have been friends together

In sunshine and in shade,

Since first beneath the chestnut-tree In infancy we played.

But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow;

We have been friends together,
Shall a light word part us now?

We have been gay together;

We have laughed at little jests; For the fount of hope was gushing Warm and joyous in our breasts. But laughter now hath fled thy lip, And sullen glooms thy brow; We have been gay together,

Shall a light word part us now?

We have been sad together;

We have wept with bitter tears

O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered
The hopes of early years.

The voices which were silent then
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
We have been sad together,

Shall a light word part us now?

CAROLINE E. NORTON.

KINDRED HEARTS.

O, ASK not, hope thou not, too much
Of sympathy below;

Beware the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky
Where the rich sunset burns;
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring,
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times,
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,
The sound of waves by night;
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill,
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this the true
And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed,
Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,

O, lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven!

FELICIA HEMANS.