"Oh, to wander away and die!

God, let me die on my mother's grave, 'Tis the only boon I dare to crave!" And she struggled on,

With a weary moan,

In the noon-day heat,
From the dusty street;

And they turned to gaze on the fair young face
And marveled much at her beauty and grace.
What cared they if her heart was aching?
How knew they that her heart was breaking?

Forth from the West the red light glowed,
And the weary feet still kept on their road,
Wand'ring on in the golden sheen,

Where the country lanes were fresh and green.
The red light gleamed on the village tower,
And lit up the clock at the sunset hour;
And still her cry

Was, "Oh, to die!

God, let me die on my mother's grave,
'Tis the only boon I care to crave!"
The sun uprose, and the light of day
Brightly scattered the clouds of gray ;
And the village was gay
For a holiday.

Merrily echoed the old church bells,
Peal on peal, o'er the hills and dells;
Borne away on the morning breeze
Over the moorland, over the leas;
Back again with a joyous clang!
Merrily, cheerily, on they rang!

But they woke her not, she slumbered on,

With her head laid down on the cold gray stone.

The village was bright

In the gladsome light,

And the village maidens were clad in white, As side by side

They merrily hied,

In gay procession, to meet the bride;
Strewing the path of the village street
With choicest flowers for her dainty feet.
A joyful chime of the bells again,

To proclaim the return of the bridal train;
A louder peal from the old church-tower

(As the bride passes on through the floral bower,
With the bridegroom happy, tender and gay),
And the echoes are carried away, away;
But they linger awhile o'er the tombstones gray;
And the sleeper awakes with a yearning cry—
"Oh, to die! oh, to die!

God let me die on my mother's grave,

'Tis all my broken heart can crave!"

And she lays her head again on the stone,
With a long-drawn breath and a sobbing moan;
While the bridal train (with many a thought
Unspoken of omens with evil fraught)

Sweeps down the path from the old church door,

And the bells' glad music is wafted once more Over the moorland, over the heath

But they wake her not, for her sleep is death!

Why does the bridegroom's cheek turn pale?
Why in his eye such a look of bale?

Why does he totter, then quicken his pace
As he catches a glimpse of the poor dead face?
Oh, woe betide,

That so fair a bride

As she who steps with such grace by his side,
Should have faced grim death on her wedding-day!

Did this thought trouble the bridegroom gay,
And dash from his eye the glad light away?

I wist not; for never a word he spoke,
And soon from his face the troubled look
Was gone, and he turned to his beautiful bride
With a radiant smile and a glance of pride:
And his eye was bright,

And his step was light,

As would beseem with her by his side.
Oh, his smile is glad, and his heart is brave!
What cares he for the dead on the grave?
The faded shawl, and faded gown,
And unsmoothed hair of golden brown?
Why should the face on the tombstone gray

Trouble him so on his wedding-day?

Forgotten words that were long since spoken, Thoughts of vows that were made to be broken? Fling them away!

Be joyous and gay!

Death will never a secret betray.

Quaff the red wine, the glasses ring ;
Drink! till the gloomy thoughts take wing;
Drink and be merry, merry and glad!
With a bride so lovely, who would be sad?

Hark! the wedding bells are ringing,
Over the hills their echoes flinging;
Carried away on the morning breeze
Over the moorland, over the leas,
Riding back on the zephyr's wing,
Joyously, merrily, on they ring!

But she will not wake, her sleep is deep,
And death can ever a secret keep.

Ah! thy smile may be glad and thy heart may be brave,

And the secret be kept betwixt thee and the grave;
But shouldst thou forget it for one short day,
In the gloom of night, from the tombstone gray,
Will come the sound of a wailing cry-
"Oh, to die! oh, to die!"

And the bride at thy bosom will raise her head
In affright, as she hears thee call on the dead
In a ghastly dream, on whose wings are borne
The memories of thy wedding morn!

Oh, the woeful sight of the pale, dead face, With the cold, dank stone for its resting-place!

Oh, the mocking chime of the old church bell!
It shall seem to peal from the mouth of hell;
Into thy dreams its echoes bringing,
Merrily, madly, ceaselessly ringing!

The white face shall haunt thee!

The bells they shall taunt thee!

Echoed and tossed on the withering breath

Of a curse that shall cling round thy soul till death. CHARLOTTE M. GRIFFITHS.

a

THE WEAVER.

WEAVER sat by the side of his loom

A-flinging the shuttle fast,

He upward turned his eye to heaven,
And still wove on-on-on!

Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,
And about his grizzled head,

And gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Laid him down among the dead.

And after, I saw, in a robe of light,

The weaver in the sky;

The angels' wings were not more bright,
And the stars grew pale, it nigh.

Was added at every cast.

His warp had been by the angels spun,

And his weft was bright and new,

Like threads which the morning upraids from the sun,
All jeweled over with dew.

And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers
In the rich soft web were bedded;

And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours,
Not yet were Time's feet leaded.

But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fell;

And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly;
For thought has a wearisome spell.

And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain
Was of a melancholy gray.

And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain
Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on,

Though the fabric all was gray;

And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone,

And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark, and still darker, and darker grew
Each newly woven thread,

And some were of a death mocking hue,
And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in,

Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears,

And the web was broken, and poor and thin,
And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;

So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied,
A-weaving those life-cords in.

And as he wove, and weeping still wove,

A tempter stole him nigh;

And with glowing words he to win him strove,
But the weaver turned his eye-

That beneath his touch had sprung,

More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,

Which the angels have to us flung.

And wherever a tear had fallen down
Gleamed out a diamond rare,

And jewels befitting a monarch's crown
Were foot-prints left by care.

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh
Was left a rich perfume,

And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky
Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom.

And then I prayed: "When my last work is done,
And the silver cord is riven,

Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one
That I bear with me to heaven."

THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VINDICATED.

EAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state; From brutes what men, from men what spirits

know,

Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
O blindness to the future! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish or a sparrow fall;
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher, death; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always TO BE blest ;
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to coine.

Lo the poor Indian, whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topped hill, a humbler heaven;
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,

Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
TO BE, contents his natural desire,

He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire:
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ;
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such,
Say, here he gives too little, there too much :
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust;
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there :
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the God of God.
In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,
Men would be angels, angels would be Gods.
Aspiring to be Gods, if angels fell,
Aspiring to be angels, men r bel;
And who but wishes to revert the las
Of order sins against the Eternal Cause.

ALEXANDER Pope.

THE BRIDGE.

STOOD on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour;
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower;
And, like the waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me,
That filled my eyes with tears—
How often, oh! how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight,

And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, oh! how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, oh! how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom,

O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care;

And the burthen laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear;
But now it has fallen from me

It is buried in the sea,
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me;
Yet, whenever I cross the river,

On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean.
Come the thoughts of other years;
And for ever and for ever,

As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes,
The moon and its broken reflection,
And its shadows shall appear
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

THE POLISH BOY.

HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill That cut like blades of steel, the air,

Causing the creeping blood to chill
With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart

To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple where
An altar, raised for private prayer,

Now forms the warrior's marble bed
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funeral tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.
What hand is that, whose icy press

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,

But meets no answering caress?

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?

It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly, late, upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye
Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow
She murmnrs forth her anguish now,
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is heard along the bloody street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep;

The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom clasped her child;
Then with pale cheek and flashing eye
Shouted with fearful energy,

Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead;
Nor touch the living boy-I stand
Between him and your lawless band.

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,

With Russia's heaviest iron bands,

And drag me to Siberia's wild

To perish, if 'twill save my child!”

Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side,
And in his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one!
Will land or gold redeem my son?
Take heritage, take name, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall!

Take these!" and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
And tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like starlight there;
Her cross of blazing rubies last
Down at the Russian's feet she cast.
He stooped to seize the glittering store.
Upspringing from the marble floor,
The mother with a cry of joy,
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.
But no! the Russian's iron grasp
Again undid the mother's clasp.
Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length,
And breaking from the Russian's hold,
He stands a giant in the strength

Of his young spirit fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,
So blue, and yet so bright,
Seems kindled from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks,
With a full voice of proud command
He turned upon the wondering band:
66 'Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can!
This hour has made the boy a man!
I knelt before my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.
I wept upon a marble brow,

Yes, wept! I was a child, but now

My noble mother on her knee

Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest,

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
The jeweled haft of poignard bright
Glittered a moment on the sight.

"Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glaive
Would drink the life-blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame
Would blush to rubies in their shame;
The blade would quiver in thy breast,
Ashamed of such ignoble rest.
No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain,
And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
A moment and the funeral light
Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright;
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang:
"Up mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery.

Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!
His freedom is forever won,
And now he waits one holy kiss
To bear his father home in bliss-
One last embrace, one blessing-one !
To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.
What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er my heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!
What! silent still? Then art thou dead?

-Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee—and thus—to die!" One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom-dead.

ANN S. STEPHENS