GOOD NIGHT.

KARL THEODORE KORNER.

Translated by G. F. Richardson.

GOOD night!

Be thy cares forgotten quite!
Day approaches to its close;
Weary nature seeks repose.
Till the morning dawn in light,
Good night!

Go to rest!

Close thine eyes in slumbers blest!
Now 't is still and tranquil all;
Hear we but the watchman's call,
And the night is still and blest.
Go to rest!

Slumber sweet!

Heavenly forms thy fancy greet!
Be thy visions from above,

Dreams of rapture,-dreams of love!

As the fair one's form you meet,

Slumber sweet!

Good night!

Slumber till the morning light!

Slumber till the dawn of day

Brings its sorrows with its ray! Sleep without or fear or fright!

Our Father wakes! Good night! good night!

THE MEMORIES OF THE DEAD.

ANONYMOUS.

As stars through dark skies stealing,
With tender, holy light;

As tongues of sweet bells pealing,
Upon the deep still night;

So, on the spirit streaming,

A solemn light is shed;

And long-loved tones come teeming

With memories of the dead.

As clouds drawn up to heaven
Return in softest showers,

Like odors which are given

Sweetest from bruised flowers,

Sad thoughts, with holy calming
The wounded heart o'erspread,

In fragrant love embalming

The memories of the dead.

THE OLD TIMES.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

Do you recall what now is living only

Amid the memories garnered at the heart?
The quiet garden, quiet and so lonely,

Where fruit and flowers had each an equal part?
When we had gathered cowslips in the meadow,
We used to bear them to the ancient seat,
Moss-grown, beneath the apple-tree's soft shadow,
Which flung its rosy blossoms at our feet,
In the old, old times,

The dear old times.

Near was the well o'er whose damp walls were weeping
Stonecrop, and grounsel, and pale yellow flowers,
While o'er the banks the strawberry plants were creeping
In the white beauty of June's earliest hours;
The currant-bush and lilac grew together,

The bean's sweet breath was blended with the rose,

Alike rejoicing in the pleasant weather

That brought the bloom to these, the fruit to those,
In the old, old times,

The dear old times.

There was no fountain over marble falling;

But the bees murmured one perpetual song, Like soothing waters, and the birds were calling Amid the fruit-tree blossoms all day long;

Upon the sunny grass-plot stood the dial,

Whose measured time strange contrast with ours made :

Ah! was it omen of life's after trial,

That even then the hours were told in shade,
In the old, old times,

The dear old times?

But little recked we then of those sick fancies
To which in after life the spirit yields:
Our world was of the fairies and romances

With which we wandered o'er the summer fields;
Then did we question of the down-balls blowing

To know if some slight wish would come to pass; If showers we feared, we sought where there was growing Some weather flower which was our weather glass: In the old, old times, The dear old times.

Yet my heart warms at these fond recollections,
Breaking the heavy shadow on my day.
Ah! who hath cared for all the deep affections—

?

The love, the kindness I have thrown away
The dear old garden! There is now remaining
As little of its bloom as rests with me.
Thy only memory is this sad complaining,
Mourning that never more for us can be
The old, old times,

The dear old times.

A LAMENT.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

"The parted spirit,

Knoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth not

Its blessing to our tears?"

THE circle is broken-one seat is forsaken,

One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken-
One heart from among us no longer shall thrill
With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.

Weep!-lonely and lowly, are slumbering now
The light of her glance, the pride of her brow.
Weep!-sadly and long shall we listen in vain,
To hear the soft tones of her welcome again.

Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claim
From its silence and darkness is ever the same;
The hope of that World whose existence is bliss,
May not stifle the tears of the mourner of this.

For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw
On the scene of its troubled probation below,
Than the pride of the marble—the pomp of the dead—
To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed.