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Whence man to an immortal birth
That nothing in its bosom dies,
On this fair couch then rest thy head
"Thou shalt be changed to-morrow!"
Changed, as the saints and angels are,
"THEY WENT OUT INTO THE MOUNT OF OLIVES."
THERE's something sweet in scenes of gloom
To hearts of joy bereft ;
When hope has wither'd in its bloom,
When friends are going to the tomb,
Or in the tomb are left.
'Tis night-a lovely night :-and lo!
The Savior and his brethren go,
Led by heaven's lamp serene,—
From Salem's height, o'er Kedron's stream,
To Olivet's dark steep;
There o'er past joys, gone like a dream,
O'er future woes, that present seem,
In solitude to weep.
Heaven on their earthly hopes has frown'd:
The table, that his love has crown'd,
Blast not, O God, this hope of ours,
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere.
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good
The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.
And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so
Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
HERE in a little cave,
The prettiest nook of this most grassy vale,
Their heads into my little vault and mourn,-
I am not all forgot,
A small hoarse stream murmurs close by my pillow,
Still questioning the air, "Why doth she sleep,
The girl, in this cold spot ?"
Even the very winds
Come to my cave and sigh: they often bring
Over my earth, and leaves of violet blue;
Fresh is my mossy bed:
The frequent pity of the rock falls here,
Sometimes, a wild and melancholy bird
Read this small tablet o'er
That holds mine epitaph upon its cheek of pearl :"Here lies a simple girl,
Like a pale flower nipt in its sweet spring tide
DIRGE FOR RACHEL.
AND Rachel lies in Ephrath's land,
The Spring comes smiling down the vale,
But Rachel never more shall hail
The flowers that in the world are springing.