The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep!
Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,
In the cities of the dead!
I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone,
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;
I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.
That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me
As their remembered words.
⚫ I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on,
But my heart is very desolate
To think that they are gone.
CHARLES SPRAGUE.
"I rocked her in the cradle,
And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest.
What fireside circle hath not felt the charm
Of that sweet tie? The youngest ne'er grow old.
The fond endearments of our earlier days
We keep alive in them, and when they die,
Our youthful joys we bury with them."
Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night;
In dreams I meet thee as of old:
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear:
In every scene to memory dear
I see thee still.
In every hallowed token round;
This little ring thy finger bound,
This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided;
These flowers, all withered now, like thee,
Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me;
This book was thine, here didst thou read;
This picture, ah! yes, here, indeed,
I see thee still.
Here was thy summer noon's retreat,
Here was thy favorite fireside seat;
This was thy chamber-here, each day,
I sat and watched thy sad decay;
Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie,
Here, on this pillow, thou didst die :
Dark hour! once more its woes unfold;
As then I saw thee, pale and cold,
I see thee still.
Thou art not in the grave confined-
Death cannot claim the immortal mind;
Let earth close o'er its sacred trust,
But goodness dies not in the dust;
Thee, O my sister, 't is not thee
Beneath the coffin's lid I see;
Thou to a fairer land art gone;
There, let me hope, my journey done,
To see thee still!
A BUTTERFLY AT A CHILD'S GRAVE.
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
A BUTTERFLY basked on an infant's grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow;
Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye,
Where she of the bright and the sparkling eye
Must sleep in the churchyard low?
Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:
I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings
Wouldst thou call the blest one back?
WHILE MAKING A GRAVE FOR A FIRST CHILD, BORN DEAD.
ROOM, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven!
Ye looked not for her yet with your soft eyes,
O, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door!
But lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep, O, mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turned away.
One look upon her face ere she depart!
My daughter! it is soon to let thee go!
My daughter! with thy birth has gushed a spring
I knew not of; filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee!
A love-O, GOD, it seems so-which must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt Heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a sweet and yearning chain,
Drawing me after thee! And so farewell!
'Tis a harsh world in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its loved and lost
But the lone grave! Thou, who so late was sleep-
Warm in the close folds of a mother's heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving,
But it was sent thee with some tender thought-
How can I leave thee here! Alas, for man!
The herb in its humility may fall,
And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we, by hands that ministered in life
Nothing but love to us, are thrust away,
The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever!
Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
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