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THERE is an ancient man, who dwells
Without our parish bounds,
Across two meadow grounds;
To church call merrily,
This old man ye may see.
He is a man of many thoughts,
That long have found their rest Each in its proper dwelling-place,
Settled within his breast. A form erect, a stately brow,
A set and measured mien;
Of one who much hath seen.
I watched a rich man's bed,
Lingered and nothing said,
Removed my shame away. “ Listen, he said: “the minister
Prepares to kneel and pray.”
Will never meet his eye;
And unremembered die.
But when that life shall end,
- Dean Alford.
THE BURIED FLOWER. In the silence of my chamber,
When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charméd sleep, Oft I hear the angel voices,
That have thrilled me long agoVoices of my lost companions,
Lying deep beneath the snow. Where are now the flowers we tended ?
Withered, broken, branch and stem. Where are now the hopes we cherished ?
Scattered to the winds with them.
THE BURIED FLOWER,
For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear
ones, Nursed in hope, and reared in love; Looking fondly ever upward,
To the clear blue heaven above. Smiling on the sun that cheered us,
Rising lightly from the rain; Never folding up your freshness,
Save to give it forth again. Never shaken, save by accents
From a tongue that was not free, As the modest blossom trembles
At the wooing of the bee. Oh! 't is sad to lie and reckon
All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in,
All the words we spoke in truth. Severed—were it severed only-
By an idle thought of strife, Such as time may knit together,
Not the broken chord of life ! O iny heart! that once so truly
Kept another's time and tune, Heart that kindled in the morning,
Look around thee in the noon. Where are they who gave the impulse
To thy earliest thought and flow? Look across the ruined garden,
All are withered, dropped, or low. Oh! I Aing my spirit backwards,
And I pass o'er years of pain : All I loved is rousing round me,
All the lost returns again. Brighter, fairer far than living,
With no trace of woe or pain, Robed in everlasting beauty,
Shall I see them once again?