Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

High hope that an infant's spirit

Can soar 'bove the highest star-
That her lot is so blest, to inherit

A home where the ransomed are.

Flowers we strew o'er her pillow-
Violets of softest hue;

The boughs of her weeping willow
Will steep them with rosy dew.

She came when Spring was recalling
The victims of Winter's blast,

And went when the sear leaves were falling,
And pale flowers withering fast.

At her birth there were smiles of gladness,
And songs of the jocund Spring :

At her death there were tears and sadness,
And two hearts withering.

"EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH."

W. C. BRYANT.

EARTH'S children cleave to earth: her frail,
Decaying children dread decay.

Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale,
And lessens in the morning ray-
Look, how, by mountain rivulet,

It lingers, as it upward creeps,

And clings to fern and copsewood set
Along the green and dewy steps:
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings
To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
And bowers of fragrant sassafras.
Yet all in vain: it passes still

From hold to hold; it cannot stay;

And in the very beams that fill

The world with glory, wastes away,
Till, parting from the mountain's brow,
It vanishes from human eye,

And that which sprung of earth is now
A portion of the glorious sky.

THE DYING GIRL.

FLORA MACARTHY.

NAY, nay-close not the casement-
'Tis the last sun these eyes shall open on.
Fear naught for me-the summer breeze is not
Too rough, it gently fans my fevered cheek,
And yields delicious coolness to my brow.
Raise me, good Nina-I would fain look forth
On this bright world once more-'t is the last

time.

Methinks all things look fairer than of yore;

The golden sun, that pours his blessed light

In rich effulgence o'er this lovely land,
Ne'er looked to me so bright as in this hour-
His setting one, and mine.-What memories
Of long-forgotten happiness the time

And scene call back! By yonder verdant hill,
How oft in this glad light I've loved to rove,
A careless merry child, and twined me garlands
Of sweet wild flowers-no hot-house denizens;
How oft I've climbed unto its very top,
And there, beneath the dear old hoary elm
That crowned its summit, have I flung me down
On the fresh turf, and gazed on all below,
And thought that Paradise, in its first day,
Could scarce have owned more happy loveliness,
Than this--my native land.

Yon river-winding through its flowery path,
Now dancing in the sun, now lost to view
Within the glooming shadow of the grove-
How well I trace its devious way, and hail
Each rock and tree as old remembered friends.
And there-in yonder bower, I mark it well-
Where lingers still the sun's last golden beam,
How oft have I too lingered, till the stream
That murmurs through it, with so sweet a voice,
Sparkled in the full glory of the risen moon.

And there was one that hung beside me then, The loved, the chosen of this breaking heart-Sleep, memory, sleep, nor tear the wound anew!

'Tis gone at last, my latest earthly sun, And evening's sombre hue is shed o'er all.

Take me, good nurse; I've bid the world farewell; Life flutters feebly in my fainting frame;

I feel the tyrant's grasp upon my heart,

And prayer becomes a dying creature more
Than vain regrets-I would commune with Heaven,
And to His mercy, who for sinners suffered,
Commend my parting spirit.

THE DEATH OF A CHILD,

R. C. WATERSTON.

SHE was even yet in childhood, but she seemed
Wasting in strength like a half-opened bud
Bowing upon its stem. She lay at rest,
Her young heart leaning with a perfect faith
Upon the word of God; and thus her eye

Shone with such inward light, and her pale lips
Moved with such smiles, that even those who

wept

Felt in their inmost hearts a thrill of joy.

With what a marvellous vigor can the soul
Put forth its hidden strength, looking at Death
As at an angel from the courts of God!
And with what beauty, at the closing hour,
Will childhood's sweet affections blossom out!

7

There she lay;-peaceful as if in slumber;
A thoughtful calmness resting on her brow,
And the long silken lashes of her eyes
Pressed meekly to each other: while her heart
Seemed musing upon things that were to come,
Or raised in silent worship. All was still;-
There came no sound upon the summer air
Except the birds' faint warble, or the voice
Of the low-murmuring stream. Her pulse had
stopped-

And those who gathered round leaned slowly o'er
To see if yet she breathed;-when suddenly
She started in her bed, upright; spread out her

arms,

And fixing upon space her kindling eyes,
As if she saw her glorious home in heaven,
"How beautiful! how beautiful!" she cried,
And, sinking on her pillow-passed away.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]
« AnteriorContinuar »