Slowly and sadly we laid him down
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory!

CHARLES WOLFE.

A SEA DIRGE

FULL fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones is coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :

Hark! I hear them,- Ding, dong, bell!
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (The Tempest).

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown

and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the

jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy

day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately

sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November

rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty
stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague

on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days

will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill;

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast
the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

ASHES OF ROSES

SOFT on the sunset sky

Bright daylight closes,
Leaving, when light doth die,
Pale hues that mingling lie
Ashes of roses.

When love's warm sun is set,
Love's brightness closes;

Eyes with hot tears are wet,
In hearts there linger yet
Ashes of roses.

ELAINE GOODALE.

CLARIBEL'S PRAYER

THE day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to the hills,
While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains fell;
But waking Blue-eyes smiled: ""T is ever as God wills;
He knoweth best, and be it rain or shine, 't is well;
Praise God!" cried always little Claribel.

Then sunk she on her knees; with eager, lifted hands
Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to tell :
"O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands,
And make her free, whatever hearts rebel;
Amen! Praise God!" cried little Claribel.

"And, Father," still arose another pleading prayer,
"Oh, save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell!

Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid streaming hair,
Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well!
Amen! Praise God!" wept little Claribel.

"But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done,
And up the crimson sky the shouts of freemen swell,
Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun
Than he whose golden hair I love so well;

Amen! praise God!" cried little Claribel.

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night, The heavy air was filled with clangor of a bell;

"Oh, shout!" the Herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with light;

""Tis victory! Oh, what glorious news to tell!" "Praise God! He heard my prayer,” cried Claribel. "But pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight

And in the fiery rain? Oh, fought he brave and well ?" "Dear child," the Herald said, "there was no braver sight Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and shell;" "Praise God!" cried trembling little Claribel.

"And rides he now with victor's plume of red,

While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps foretell ?" The Herald dropped a tear. "Dear child," he softly said, "Thy brother evermore with conquerors shall dwell." "Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel. “With victors, wearing crowns and bearing palms,” he said, And snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell;

"Oh, sweetest Herald, say my brother lives!" she plead; "Dear child, he walks with angels, who in strength excel; Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel."

The cold gray day died sobbing on the weary hills,

While bitter mourning on the night winds rose and fell. “O child,” the Herald wept, " 't is as the dear Lord wills; He knoweth best, and be it life or death, 'tis well. " "Amen! Praise God!" sobbed little Claribel.

ANONYMOUS.

THE RAINY DAY

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all
Into each life some rain must fall

Some days must be dark and dreary.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE DEATH-BED

WE watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied,

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed, she had
Another morn than ours.

THOMAS HOOD.

IF SHE BUT KNEW

If she but knew that I am weeping
Still for her sake,

That love and sorrow grow with keeping
Till they must break,

My heart that breaking will adore her,

Be hers and die;

If she might hear me once implore her,
Would she not sigh?

If she but knew that it would save me
Her voice to hear,

Saying she pitied me, forgave me,
Must she forbear?

If she were told that I was dying,

Would she be dumb?

Could she content herself with sighing?

Would she not come ?

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

MY SLAIN

THIS sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee,
This amber-haired, four-summered little maid,
With her unconscious beauty troubleth me,
With her low prattle maketh me afraid.
Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so
You hurt me, though you do not see me cry,
Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh
For the dear babe I killed so long ago.
I tremble at the touch of your caress;
I am not worthy of your innocent faith,
I who, with whetted knives of worldliness,
Did put my own child-heartedness to death,
Beside whose grave I pace forevermore,
Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore.

There is no little child within me now
To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up
When June winds kiss me, when an apple-bough
Laughs into blossom, or a buttercup

Plays with the sunshine, or a violet

Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas!
The meaning of the daisies in the grass
I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wet
It is not with the blitheness of the child,
But with the bitter sorrow of sad years.

O moaning life, with life irreconciled!
O backward-looking thought! O pain! O tears!
For us there is not any silver sound

Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground.

Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore
Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain
Of that which was miraculous before,

And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain.
Woe worth the peering, analytic days

That dry the tender juices in the breast,
And put the thunders of the Lord to test,
So that no marvel must be, and no praise,
Nor any God except Necessity.

What can ye give my poor starved life in lieu
Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye?