I loved thee, and my heart was blest,
But ere that day was spent,

I saw thy light and graceful limbs,
In drooping illness bent;

And shuddered as I cast a look

Upon thy fainting head:

For all the glow of health was gone,
And life had almost fled.

One glance upon thy marble brow
Made known that hope was vain,
I knew the swiftly wasting lamp
Would never light again.

Thy cheeks were pale, thy snow-white lips
Were gently thrown apart,

And life with every passing breath,
Seem'd gushing from thy heart.

And when I could not keep the tear
From gathering in my eye,

Thy little hand prest gently mine,

In token of reply;

To ask one more exchange of love,
Thy look was upward cast,—

And in that long and hallowed kiss
Thy happy spirit past.

I trusted I should not have liv'd
To bid farewell to thee,

And nature in my heart declared
It ought not thus to be:

I hoped that thou within the grave
My weary head should lay,

And live beloved when I was gone,
For many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried

Thy dying eyes to close,

And how I envied in that hour,

Thy calm and deep repose.

For I was left alone on earth,

With pain and grief opprest,

And thou wast with the sainted, "where The weary are at rest."

Yes, I am left alone on earth,—

But I must not repine

Because a spirit that I lov'd

Is earlier blest than mine.

My fate may darken as it will,

I shall not much deplore,

Since thou art where the ills of life

Can never reach thee more.-Bryant.

WE ARE BORN TO DIE.

Death only is the lot which none can miss
And all is possible to heaven but this;
The best, the dearest favorite of the sky,
Must taste that cup,—for man is born to die.

Homer.

VOICES FROM GLORY.

From the eternal shadow rounding
All our sun and starlight here,
Voices of our lost ones sounding-
Bid us be of heart and cheer;
Through the silence, down the space,
Falling on the inward ear.

Know we not our dead are looking
Downward with a sad surprise;
All our strifes of words rebuking
With their mild and loving eyes ?
Shall we grieve these holy angels,
Shall we clould these blessed skies?

Let us draw their mantles o'er us.
Which have fallen in our way;
Let us do the work before us

Cheerly, bravely, while we may; Ere the long night silence cometh, And with us it is not day.

DEATH, WHAT ART THOU?

Death, what art thou? a lawgiver that never altereth, Fixing the consummate seal whereby the deeds of life become established.

O death, what art thou? a stern and silent usher, Leading to the judgment for Eternity, after the trial scene of time.

O death, what art thou? an husbandman that reapeth always,

Out of season, as in season, with the sickle in his

hand.

O death, what art thou? the shadow unto every substance,

In the bower as in the battle, haunting day and

night.

O death, what art thou? nurse of dreamless slum

bers,

Freshening the fevered flush to a wakefulness eternal.

O death, what art thou? strange and solemn alchy

mist,

Elaborating life's elixir from these clayey crucibles.

C