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Thoughts while making the Grave of a New-born Child.

ROOM, gentle flowers! my child would pass to

heaven!

Ye looked not for her yet with your soft eyes,
O watchful ushers at Death's narrow door!
But lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep! oh mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turned away.

One look upon thy face ere thou depart!

My daughter! It is soon to let thee go!

My daughter! With thy birth has gushed a spring
I knew not of-filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee—
A love-oh God! it seemed so-that must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 't wixt heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain
Drawing me after thee! And so, farewell!

'T is a harsh world, in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its loved and lost
But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast sleeping
Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving
But it was sent thee with some tender thought,
How can I leave thee-here? Alas for man!
The herb in its humility may fall

And waste into the bright and genial air,

THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING A GRAVE. 301

While we-by hands that ministered in life
Nothing but love to us—are thrust away—
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever!

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook,
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone;
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters:
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers,
And far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies-
Robbed of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart back from an infant gone.
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
The images from all the silent rooms,
And every sight and sound peculiar to her
Undo its sweetest link-and so at last

The fountain—that, once struck, must flow forever,
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile

Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens the buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say:
A child that we have loved is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she passed away!
NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

Auf Wiedersehen! (Summer.)

HE little gate was reached at last,

THE

Half hid in lilacs down the lane;
She pushed it wide, and as she passed,
A wistful look she backward cast,

And said," auf wiedersehen!"

With hand on latch, a vision white
Lingered reluctant, and again
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
She said,-" auf wiedersehen!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair,
I linger in delicious pain,

Ah, in that chamber whose rich air
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,
Thinks she,—“ auf wiedersehen!”

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press
The turf that silences the lane;

I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes,

I hear, "auf wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!

The English words had seemed too fain;
But these they drew us heart to heart,

Yet held us tenderly apart;

She said," auf wiedersehen!"

JAMES R. LOwell.

PALINODE. (AUTUMN.)

303

Palinode. (Autumn.)

TILL thirteen years: 'tis Autumn now

STILL

On field and hill, in heart and brain;

The naked trees at evening sough;
The leaf to the forsaken bough

Sighs not," We meet again !”

Two watched yon oriole's pendant dome,
That now is void and dank with rain;
And one,--O hope more frail than foam !
The bird to his deserted home

Sings not,—“We meet again !”

The loath gate swings with rusty creak;
Once, parting there, we played at pain;
There came a parting, when the weak
And fading lips essayed to speak
Vainly-"We meet again!"

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,
Though thou in outer dark remain ;
One sweet sad voice ennobles death,
And still for eighteen centuries saith,
Softly," Ye meet again !"

If earth another grave must bear,
Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain,
And something whispers my despair,
That, from an orient chamber there,
Floats down, "We meet again!"

JAMES R. Lowell.

After the Burial.

YES, Faith is a goodly anchor

YES,

When skies are sweet as a psalm;

It lolls at the bows so stalwart

In bluff, broad-shouldered calm.

And when over breakers to leeward
The tattered surges are hurled,
It may keep our head to the tempest,
With its grip on the base of the world.

But, after the shipwreck, tell me
What help in its iron thews,
Still true to the broken hawser,

Deep down among seaweed and ooze?

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow,
When the helpless feet stretch out,
And find in the deeps of darkness
No footing so solid as doubt;

Then better one spar of memory,
One broken plank of the Past,
That our human heart may cling to,
Though hopeless of shore at last!

To the spirit its splendid conjectures,
To the flesh its sweet despair,
Its tears o'er the thin worn locket
With its anguish of deathless hair!

Immortal? I feel it and know it;
Who doubts it of such as she?

But that is the pang's very secret-
Immortal away from me!

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