"For what, though the mountains and skies be fair, Where it hath suffered and nobly striven, And by that soul, amidst groves and rills, KINDRED HEARTS. OH! ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below; Few are the hearts whence one same touch Such ties would make this life of ours It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which turns A rapture o'er thy soul can bring- The tune that speaks of other times- The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night; Yet scorn thou not for this, the true The kindly, that from childhood grew, If there be one that o'er the dead Hath in thy grief borne part, And watched through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart! But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, With the same breeze that bend, Never to mortals given,- Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise; We may find it where a hedge-row showers its blossoms o'er our way, Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day. This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it. We may find it where a spring shines clear, be- | Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease? neath an aged tree, With the foxglove o'er the water's glass borne Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy downwards by the bee; hours of peace; Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birch- And feel that by the lights and clouds through en stems is thrown, which our pathway lies, As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies! green and lone. We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold, blue sky, While soft on icy pool and stream their penciled shadows lie, When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound, THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief, Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, crystals to the ground. But are we free to do e'en thus-to wander as we will Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill? No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast, And his arms folded in majestic gloom, Telling the cedars and the pines that there There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, And he too paused in reverence by that grave, Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said— "I listened for the words, which, years ago, Passed o'er these waters: though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. While from their narrow round we see the golden" day fleet past. Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since thenAnd from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the Many, but bringing nought like him again! They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back, shining river's track; They bar us from our heritage of spring-time," hope, and mirth, Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, And weigh our burdened spirits down with the Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, Yet should this be?-Too much, too soon, despond ingly we yield! A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the Laying their cedars like the corn-stalks low; Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? "He told of far and sunny lands, which lie "We saw him slowly fade,-athirst, perchance, And on his gleaming hair no touch of time,— Therefore we hoped:-but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes,-and finds not him! "We gathered round him in the dewy hour Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swelled and shook the wilderness ete long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. "And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung, Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough!-he sank upon my breastOur friend that loved us, he was gone to rest! "We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We reared this Cross in token where he lay, For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. "But I am sad!-I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken, And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:"Son of the wilderness! despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot! Heaven darkly works; yet where the seed hath been There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. "Hope on, hope ever!-by the sudden springing Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, After cold silent months, the woods among; "Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, So by the Cross they parted, in the wild, By many a blue stream in its lonely way; LAST RITES. By the mighty minster's bell, Tolling with a sudden swell; By the colours half-mast high, O'er the sea hung mournfully; Know, a prince hath died! By the drum's dull muffled sound, By the arms that sweep the ground, By the volleying muskets' tone, Speak ye of a soldier gone In his manhood's pride. By the chanted psalm that fills Reverently the ancient hills,* Learn, that from his harvests done, Peasants bear a brother on To his last repose. By the pall of snowy white Which is the tenderest rite of all? Requiem o'er the monarch's head, Herdsman's funeral hymn? Tells not each of human wo? THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. The inviolate Island of the sage and free.-Byron. ROCKS of my country! let the cloud Your crested heights array, And rise ye like a fortress proud, Above the surge and spray! A custom still retained at rural funerals, in some parts of England and Wales. My spirit greets you as ye stand, The severed Land of Home! I have left rich blue skies behind, The breathings of the myrtle flowers, The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain, For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! That make thee holy earth. Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea: Oh! be it still a joy, a pride, Thou hast flung the wealth away, But when wilt thou return?- O'er the image of the sky, Which the lake's clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie But not for evermore. Give back thy heart again, There is kept a place for thee, Tender and gravely sweet. For thee kind bosoms yearn, For thee fond tears are shedOh! when wilt thou return? THE WAKENING. How many thousands are wakening now! And some far out on the deep mid-sea, To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice- And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath, And some, in the gloomy convict-cell, So are we roused on this chequered earth, Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, But one must the sound be, and one the call, Pouring itself away, As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns That swells, and floats, and dies, Yet, yet remember me! Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, Under the dark rich blue Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, And in the marble halls, Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear, Fain would I bind for you |