"All the picture now to me how dear! E'en this gray old rock where I am seated Is a jewel worth my journey here; Ah, that such a scene must be completed All the picture now to me how dear! "Old stone school-house!-it is still the same; Old stone school-house, it is still the same. "There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails In the crops of buckwheat we were raising; There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. "In the cottage yonder I was born; Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat and corn; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn! In the cottage yonder I was born. "Those two gateway sycamores you see Those two gateway sycamores you see. When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather: Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the "There's another,-not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning, O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prisground, on), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine. "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,-I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,— But we 'll meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine." His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,—his grasp was childish weak His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine. CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON. ONG THE LAST OF SEVEN. AY, be not angry, chide her not, Although the child hast erred, Nor bring the tears into her eyes By one ungentle word. And when she sits beside my chair, "But now in grief she walks alone By every garden bed." When that sweet linnet sang, before Our summer roses died, A sister's arm was round her neck, But now in grief she walks alone, THE VOICELESS. E count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy fame is proud to win them; Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, Whose song has told their hearts' sad story: Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, O hearts that break, and give no sign, RESIGNATION. HERE is no flock, however watched and tended, The air is full of farewells to the dying; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. |