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Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
More hateful, as they shine forever.

It cannot be each hope and fear

That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere

Than this bleak world that holds us now! There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers, "Dry thy tears: The pure in heart shall meet again!"

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

UNDERNEATH the sod, now lying,
Dark and drear,

Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Sorrow here.

Yes, they're ever bending o'er her,
Eyes that weep;

Forms that to the cold grave bore her,
Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,

Friends she loved in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1844,

BY GOULD, KENDALL & LINCOLN,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And, as she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies,

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

THE DEPARTED.

PARK BENJAMIN.

THE departed! the departed!

They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories
Like shadows over streams;

But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,

The departed, the departed
Can never more return!

The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep!
Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone,
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;

I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,

Can never be so dear to me

As their remembered words.

⚫ I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles Still on me sweetly fall,

Their tones of love I faintly hear

My name in sadness call.

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