THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, Thou, with the sculptured bowl, 185 And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, And ye, luxuriant flowers! Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, Ye, that a thousand springs, And leafy summers with their odorous breath, May yet outlast, what do ye there, bright things! Mantling the place of death? Of sunlight and soft air, Is it to show how slight The bound that severs festivals and tombs, Or when the father laid Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep, Say if the mourners sought, In these rich images of summer mirth, These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought Of our last hour on earth? Ye have no voice, no sound, Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek; Alas! for those that lay Down in the dust without their hope of old! Backward they look'd on life's rich banquet-day, But all beyond was cold. Every sweet wood-note then, And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow, And each glad murmur from the homes of men, Made it more hard to go. But we, when life grows dim, When its last melodies float o'er our way, E'en though we bid farewell Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees, And think of deathless flowers, And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE. 187 EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.1 COME to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; And the reaper's work is done. The twilight star to heaven, And the summer dew to flowers, And rest to us, is given By the cool soft evening hours. Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, When the burden and the heat And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done. 1 "The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the sunset tree." See Captain Sherer's interesting Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany. Yes; tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round! And the gale that fans our brows. But rest more sweet and still There shall no tempest blow, No scorching noontide heat; There shall be no more snow,1 No weary wandering feet. So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our fathers trode, To the quiet of the skies, To the Sabbath of our God. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone, 1“Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen Wo kein schnee mehr ist." SCHILLER'S Nadowessiche Todtenklage. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 189 THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. FORGET them not:-though now their name Though by the hearth its utterance claim. Though for their sake this earth no more And shadows, never mark'd before, And though their image dim the sky, Nor, where their love and life went by, They have a breathing influence there, A charm, not elsewhere found; Sad-yet it sanctifies the air, The stream-the ground. Then, though the wind an alter'd tone Oh! fly it not!-no fruitless grief Thus in their presence felt, A record links to every leaf There, where they dwelt. Still trace the path which knew their tread, Still tend their garden-bower, |