I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks, I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky. "Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons, He sinned-but he paid the price of his guilt "But I hoped that the cottage-roof would be A safe retreat for my sons and me; And that while they ripened to manhood fast, They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past; And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride, As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side, Tall like their sire, with the princely grace "Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart, When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart! When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed, And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid, And clung to my sons with desperate strength, Till the murderers loosed my hold at length, And bore me breathless and faint aside, In their iron arms, while my children died. They died-and the mother that gave them birth Is forbid to cover their bones with earth. “The barley-harvest was nodding white, When my children died on the rocky height, And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. But now the season of rain is nigh, The sun is dim in the thickening sky, Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. I SAW an aged man upon his bier, His hair was thin and white, and on his brow A record of the cares of many a year; Cares that were ended and forgotten now. And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. Then rose another hoary man and said, In faltering accents, to that weeping train : "Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, "Why weep ye then for him, who, having won Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done, While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set? "His youth was innocent; his riper age Marked with some act of goodness every day; And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, Meekly he gave his being up, and went To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. "That life was happy; every day he gave Thanks for the fair existence that was his; For a sick fancy made him not her slave, To mock him with her phantom miseries. No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. "And I am glad that he has lived thus long, And glad that he has gone to his reward; For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye THE RIVULET. THIS little rill, that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings, List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, With blooming cheek and open brow, And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell how bright and gay The scenes of life before me lay. Then glorious hopes, that now to speak Would bring the blood into my cheek, Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high, A name I deemed should never die. Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, How swift the years have passed away, Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wandered in the forest shade. Thou, ever-joyous rivulet, Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; As pure thy limpid waters run; |