Yet sense and passion held them slaves, Till they were wrecked upon their graves, Perhaps, like them, I, too, shall go, And yet I would not live in vain, O God of mercy, make me know Nor let me idly spend it so, But make it fit for heaven! Woods in Winter.-LONGFELLOW. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That over-brows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. On the gray maple's crusted bark Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips; Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay; But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear I hear it in the opening year- A Last Wish.-ANONYMOUS. WHEN breath and sense have left this clay, To some lone, green, and sunny spot; And gently, o'er my last, still bed, To whispering winds, the grass shall wave. The wild flowers, too, I loved so well, Shall blow, and breathe their sweetness there, And all around my grave shall tell, "She felt that nature's face was fair." And those that come because they loved The mouldering frame that lies below, Shall find their anguish half removed, While that sweet spot shall soothe their wo. The notes of happy birds alone Shall there disturb the silent air; And when the cheerful sun goes down, Roving among the sleeping flowers, Steal to my grave to weep awhile, The Winged Worshippers.-CHARLES SPRAGUE. GAY, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep: Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 'tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays; Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, In yon blue dome not reared with hands. Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, 'Twere heaven indeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar, Death of an Infant.-MRS. SIGOURNEY. DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip;-he touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound The silken fringes of their certaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile So fixed and holy from that marble brow,Death gazed, and left it there ;-he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven. Burns.-F. G. HALLECK. THE memory of Burns-a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory-be the rest Forgot-she's canonized his mind: And it is joy to speak the best We may of human kind. I've stood beside the cottage bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath, A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument--that tells to Heaven There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires. Yet read the names that know not death,- Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his, that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or "Auld lang Syne" is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And when he breathes his master-lay All passions in our frames of clay |