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And the starlight of love glimmered bright at the end,
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.

And I saw them again, bending low o'er the grave,
Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid,
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night,
And the joy from their bosoms had fled.

But the Healer was there, and his arms were around,
And he led them with tenderest care:

And he showed them a star in the bright upper world,

'Twas their star shining brilliantly there!

They had each heard a voice-'t was the voice of their God, "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!"

SIGN

SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.

IGNIOR Antonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys, and my usances:
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:
You call me - misbeliever, cut-throat, dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears, you need my help!
Go to, then; you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have moneys: you say so,
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,
Hath a dog money? is it possible,

A cur can lend three thousand ducats? or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness,
Say this?

Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You called me -dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys.

THE BOYS.

HE boys are coming home to-morrow!"
Thus our rural hostess said:

“TH

Whilst Lou and I shot flitting glances,

Full of vague, unspoken dread.

Had we hither come for quiet,
Hither fled the city's noise,
But to change it for the tumult
Of those horrid country-boys?

Waking one with wild hallooing
Early every summer day;
Shooting robins, tossing kittens,
Frightening the wrens away:

Stumbling over trailing flounces,

Thumbing volumes gold and blue;

Clamoring for sugared dainties,

Tracking earth the passage through.

These and other kindred trials

Fancied we with woful sigh:

"Those boys, those horrid boys, to-morrow!" Sadly whispered Lou and I.

I wrote those lines one happy summer;
To-day I smile to read them o'er,
Remembering how full of terror

We watched all day the opening door.

They came

"the boys!" Six feet in stature, Graceful, easy, polished men ;

I vowed to Lou, behind my knitting,
To trust no mother's words again.

For boyhood is a thing immortal
To every mother's heart and eye;
And sons are boys to her forever,
Change as they may to you and I.

To her, no line comes sharply marking
Whither or when their childhood went;
Nor when the eyeglass upward turning,
Levelled at last their downward bent.

Now by the window, still and sunny,
Warmed by the rich October glow,
The dear old lady waits and watches,
Just as she waited years ago.

For Lou and I are now her daughters
We married "those two country-boys,"
In spite of all our sad forebodings

About their awkward ways, and noise.

Lou springs up to meet a footfall;
I list no more for coming feet:
Mother and I are waiting longer
For steps on Beulah's golden street.

But when she blesses Lou's beloved,
And seals it with a tender kiss,
I know that loving words go upward,
Words to another world than this.

Alway she speaks in gentle fashion
About "my boys"-she always will;
Though one is gray, and one has vanished
Beyond the touch of time or ill.

THE TWO MAIDENS.

NE came with light and laughing air,

ONE

And cheek like opening blossom; Bright gems were twined amid her hair,

And glittered on her bosom;

And pearls and costly bracelets deck
Her round, white arms, and lovely neck.

Like summer's sky, with stars bedight,
The jewelled robe around her,
And dazzling as the noontide light
The radiant zone that bound her;
And pride and joy were in her eye,
And mortals bowed as she passed by.

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A pensive shade was stealing;
Yet there no grief of earth we trace,
But that deep, holy feeling,

Which mourns the heart should ever stray

From the pure fount of Truth away.

Around her brow, as snowdrop fair,
The glossy tresses cluster,

Nor pearl nor ornament was there,
Save the meek spirit's lustre;

And faith and hope beamed from her eye,
And angels bowed as she passed by.

W

WHERE ARE THE DEAD?

HERE are the mighty ones of ages past, Who o'er the world their inspiration castWhose memories stir our spirits like a blast?

Where are the dead?

Where are old empire's sinews snapped and gone? Where is the Persian? Mede? Assyrian?

Where are the kings of Egypt? Babylon?

Where are the dead?

Where are the mighty ones of Greece? Where be The men of Sparta and Thermopyla?

The conquering Macedonian, where is he?

Where are the dead?

Where are Rome's founders? Where her chiefest son, Before whose name the whole known world bowed down Whose conquering arm chased the retreating sun? Where are the dead?

Where's the bard-warrior king of Albion's state,
A pattern for earth's sons to emulate

The truly, nobly, wisely, goodly great?

Where are the dead?

Where is Gaul's hero, who aspired to be

A second Cæsar in his mastery ·

To whom earth's crowned ones trembling bent the knee? Where are the dead?

Where is Columbia's son, her darling child,
Upon whose birth virtue and freedom smiled
The Western star, bright, pure, and undefiled?

Where are the dead?

Where are the sons of song, the soul-inspired-
The bard of Greece, whose muse (of heaven acquired)
With admiration ages past has fired -

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The classic dead?

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Greater than all an earthly sun enshrined -
Where is the king of bards? where shall we find
The Swan of Avon-monarch of the mind-

The mighty dead?

Did they all die when did their bodies die,
Like the brute dead passing forever by?
Then, wherefore was their intellect so high-
The mighty dead?

Why was it not confined to earthly sphere-
To earthly wants? If it must perish here,
Why did they languish for a bliss more dear-
The blessed dead?

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