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When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waving light, Ye'11 never see me more in the long, gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow
cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush in the pool.
Ye '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthornshade,
And ye '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid;
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but ye '11 forgive me
now; Ye '11 kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and
brow; Nay, — nay,—ye must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, Ye shall not fret for me, mother, ye have another child.
If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my restingplace;
Though ye '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what ye say,
And be often and often with you, when ye think I -m far away.
156 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said gotd-night for evermore,
And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don't let Effie come to see me tifl my grave be growing green;
She '11 be a better child to you than I have ever been.
She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor;Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden more;But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn;
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OP DELIGHT. — Wordsworth.
She was a phantom of delight
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see, with eye serene,
THE LOST PLEIAD.—Mrs. Hemans.
And is there glory from the heavens departed ? —
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning,— The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea
To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning, — Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee.
Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are,
Shines not the less for that one vanished star!
CORONACH.*—Sir W. Scott.
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
* Funeral sons'.
The autumn winds, rushing,
But our flower was in flushing
Fleet foot on the corei,*
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and forever!
THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED.— Mrs. Southey.
Tread softly, —bow the head, — In reverent silence bow, —
With lowly reverence bow;
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
* The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.