Not half so much to part me from my child
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home,
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot,

And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers—
Familiar, meadow flowers. O'er thee, my babe,
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister's side,
We lay 'midst England's valleys!

Husband.

Dost thou grieve,

Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep
An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.

Agnes.

Forgive, forgive!

My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild-
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
There is my country! there my head shall rest,
And throb ro more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!

[Kneeling with the child in her arms.
And thou, my God!

Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness,
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me !

If nature hath rebell'd,
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away,

Making a midnight of her agony

When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch

Of thine Almighty hand-oh, pardon me!
By thy Son's anguish, pardon! In the soul

The tempests and the wayes will know thy voice— Father, say "Peace, be still!”

[Giving the child to her husband.

Farewell, my babe!

Go from my bosom now to other rest!

With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,

And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears, I yield thee to thy Maker!

Husband.

Now, my wife,

Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,

From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose-
With a calm, trustful heart.

To burning gold?-there-o'er yon willow-tuft? Under that native desert monument

Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the grey mosses of the wilderness

Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E'en from the fullness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn-a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o'er his solitary task,

As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.

Agnes.

My gentle son!

Th' affectionate, the gifted!—With what joy—
Edmund, rememberest thou?-with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms

Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair

In that kind youthful breast!—Oh! now no more-
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,

For many a blessing left.

(Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell! Oh! the pale piercing sweetness of that look! How can it be sustain'd? Away, away!

[After a short pause. Edmund, my woman's nature still is weakI cannot see thee render dust to dust! Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task; I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer Till thy return.

Husband.

Then strength be with thy prayer! Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well awhile! We must be pilgrims of the woods again, After this mournful hour.

[He goes out with the child. AGNES kneels in prayer. After a time, voices without are heard singing.

THE FUNERAL HYMN.

Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,

By the forest river,

Sleeps our babe alone.

England's field flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave.

Woods unknown receive him,
'Midst the mighty wild;

Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!

And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.

Though his eye hath brighten'd
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten'd

Half our heart's dismay;

Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven.

And to her who bore him,

Her who long must weep,
Yet shall Heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!

Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm'd by pain.

Where the long reeds quiver,

Where the pines make moan,
Leave we by the river,

Earth to earth alone!

God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!

From the exile's sorrow,

From the wanderer's dread

Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled:

Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home

Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam.

Now let thought behold him
With his angel look,

Where those arms enfold him,

Which benignly took

Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast,
When his voice their tender meekness blest.

Turn thee now, fond mother!
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,

Here to dream and mourn:

Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!

EASTER DAY

IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCH-YARD.

THERE is a wakening on the mighty hills,
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills,
And a soft visionary hue is born

On the young foliage, worn

By all the embosom'd woods-a silvery green, Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.