So, a crown of green leaves MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. BY JAMES ALDRICH. IN beauty lingers on the hills Like weeds upon its sluggish wave. God gives us ministers of love, Which we regard not, being near; Death takes them from us, then we feel That angels have been with us here! As mother, sister, friend, or wife, They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain; And, when the grave has closed between Our hearts and theirs, we love-in vain! Would, Mother! thou couldst hear me tell The harvest of my youth is done, And manhood, come with all its cares, Finds, garnered up within my heart, For every flower a thousand tares. Dear Mother! couldst thou know my thoughts Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine, The depth of feeling in my breast, Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine! WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. WOODMAN, spare that tree! And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Cut not its earth-bound ties; When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not. THE SEXTON. BY PARK BENJAMIN. NIGH to a grave, that was newly made, And his locks were white as the foamy sea- "I gather them in! for man and boy, "Many are with me, but still I'm alone! I am king of the dead-and I make my throne And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage or come they from hall Mankind are my subjects-all, all, all! Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin- "I gather them in-and their final rest, Is here, down here in the earth's dark breast"- HASTE, BOATMAN, HASTE. BY MISS CASTELLO. BOAT ahoy! boat ahoy! boat ahoy! Haste, boatman, haste, there's not to-night The nightingale at distance calls, The willows wave amid the gloaming, Gay lights, like glow-worms gem those walls, And yon fair lady awaits my coming. Haste, boatman, such a stream and shore, Should give new vigour to thine oar, Then take thy bark and row me over. |