Selections From " In Memoriam." GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE. To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er ! So draw him home to those that mourn All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor. bright My Arthur, whom I shall not see TIME AND ETERNITY, If Sleep and Death be truly one, In some long trance should slumber on; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the color of the flower: So then were nothing lost to man; And love will last as pure and whole PERSONAL RESURRECTION. That each, who seems a separate whole, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other's good; What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing place to clasp and say, "Farewell! We lose ourselves in light." SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP. Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? I wrong the grave with fears untrue; Be near us when we climb or fall; Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours And in the dark church, like a ghost, Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. When on my bed the moonlight falls, Thy marble bright in dark appears, The mystic glory swims away; From off my bea the moonlight dies; And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, I sleep till dusk is dipped in gray; And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid vale from coast to coast, DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME. So many worlds, so much to do, The fame is quenched that I foresaw, The head hath missed an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass the path; that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds; What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. -Arthur Henry Hallam, ob. 1833. Footsteps of Angels. WHEN the hours of day are numbered, W And the voices of the night Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlor wall; Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the being beauteous Comes that messenger divine, Lays her gentle hand in mine; And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, O, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! When the Lamp is Shattered. When hearts have once mingled, Loves first leaves the well-built nest; To endure what it once possest. Oh Love! who bewailest The fraility of all things here, For yout cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Like the sun from from a wintry sky. Will rot, and thine eagle home L Man's Mortality. IKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had— E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is doneThe rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shaddow flies, The gourd consumes-and man-he dies? Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like the bird that's here to-day, OF Sleep. "He giveth His beloved sleep."—Psalm cxxvi. 2. F all the thoughts of God that are Among the Psalmist's music deep, What would we give to our beloved? G RIEVE not that I die young-Is it not well Ah! who would linger till bright eyes grow dim, Till fancy's many-colored wings are furl'd, Thus would I pass away-yielding my soul -Lady Flora Hastings: Swan Song. |