THERE IS AN ANCIENT MAN. THERE is an ancient man, who dwells Beyond the poplar avenue, Across two meadow grounds; And whensoe'er our two small bells Leaning on our churchyard gate He is a man of many thoughts, A form erect, a stately brow, Of one who much hath seen. And once, when young, in care of souls, These lines of humble thankfulness The forms of life have severed us, Fain would I hail that reverend man A father and a friend. THE BURIED FLOWER. IN the silence of my chamber, Oft I hear the angel voices, That have thrilled me long ago— Voices of my lost companions, Lying deep beneath the snow. - Dean Alford. Where are now the flowers we tended? THE BURIED FLOWER. For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones, To the clear blue heaven above. Smiling on the sun that cheered us, Never shaken, save by accents Oh! 't is sad to lie and reckon Severed-were it severed only-- O my heart! that once so truly Where are they who gave the impulse Oh! I fling my spirit backwards, Brighter, fairer far than living, Shall I see them once again? 3 |