200

THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.

But what to them the dirge, the knell ?
These were the mourner's share;
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell
Throbb'd through the beating air;
The rattling cord,-the rolling stone,-
The shelving sand that slid,
And, far beneath, with hollow tone

Rung on the coffin's lid.

The slumberer's mound grows fresh and

Then slowly disappears;

The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,
Earth hides his date and years;
But, long before the once-loved name
Is sunk or worn away,

No lip the silent dust may claim,

That press'd the breathing clay.

green,

Go where the ancient pathway guides,
See where our sires laid down
Their smiling babes, their cherish'd brides,
The patriarchs of the town;

Hast thou a tear for buried love?
A sigh for transient power?

All that a century left above,

Go, read it in an hour!

The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,
The sabre's thirsting edge,

The hot shell, shattering in its fall,
The bayonet's rending wedge,―

Here scatter'd death; yet seek the spot,
No trace thine eye can see,

No altar, and they need it not

Who leave their children free!

THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.

Look where the turbid raindrops stand
In many a chisel'd square,

The knightly crest, the shield, the brand
Of honour'd names were there;

Alas! for every tear is dried

Those blazon'd tablets knew,
Save when the icy marble's side
Drips with the evening dew,

Or gaze upon yon pillar'd stone,*
The empty urn of pride;

There stands the goblet and the sun,—-
What need of more beside?

Where lives the memory of the dead?
Who made their tomb a toy?
Whose ashes press that nameless bed?
Go, ask the village boy!

Lean o'er the slender western wall,
Ye ever-roaming girls;

The breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To sweep the simple lines that tell ⚫

An exile's† date and doom;
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell,
They wreath the stranger's tomb.

And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,

Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes;

201

*The tomb of the VASSALL family is marked by a freestone tablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing but the sculptured reliefs of the goblet and the sun,-Vas-Sol,-which designated a powerful family, now almost forgotten.

The exile referred to in this stanza was a native of Honfleur, in Normandy.

202

THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.

If sinless angels love as we,

Who stood thy grave beside,
Three seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride!

I wander'd to thy buried mound,
When earth was hid, below

The level of the glaring ground,
Choked to its gates with snow,
And when with summer's flowery waves
The lake of verdure roll'd,

As if a sultan's white-robed slaves
Had scatter'd pearls and gold.

Nay, the soft pinions of the air,
That lifts this trembling tone,

Its breath of love may almost bear,
To kiss thy funeral stone;
And, now thy smiles have pass'd away,
For all the joy they gave,

May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!

When damps beneath, and storms above,
Have bow'd those fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust grove
Shall swing its orient flowers;
And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If e'er this humble line,

Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust,
Might call a tear on mine,

THE SHADED WATER.

BY WILLIAM G. SIMMS.

WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise
And bustle of the crowd, I feel rebuke,
I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys,

And sit me down beside this little brook:
The waters have a music to mine ear
It glads me much to hear.

It is a quiet glen as you may see,

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees,
That spread their giant branches, broad and free,
The silent growth of many centuries;
And make a hallow'd time for hapless moods,
A Sabbath of the woods.

Few know its quiet shelter,-none, like mé,
Do seek it out with such a fond desire,
Poring, in idlesse mood, on flower and tree,

And listening, as the voiceless leaves respire,— When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering, Rests here his weary wing.

And all the day, with fancies ever new,

And sweet companions from their boundless store Of merry elves, bespangled all with dew,

Fantastic creatures of the old time lore,—
Watching their wild but unobtrusive play,
I fling the hours away.

204

THE SHADED WATER.

A gracious couch,—the root of an old oak,
Whose branches yield it moss and canopy,—
Is mine-and so it be from woodman's stroke
Secure, shall never be resign'd by me;

It hangs above the stream that idly plies,
Heedless of any eyes.

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent,

Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, While every sense, on earnest mission sent,

Returns, thought-laden, back with bloom and flower, Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, A profitable toil.

And still the waters, trickling at my feet,

Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,— Yet not so rudely as to send one sound Through the thick copse around.

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest

Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees,

Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, press'd
On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,—
And, with awaken'd vision upward bent,
I watch the firmament.

How like its sure and undisturb'd retreat,
Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm-
To the pure waters trickling at my feet,

The bending trees that overshade my form;
So far as sweetest things of earth may seem
Like those of which we dream.