And with all his glorious feelings yet

In their first glow,

Like a southern stream that no frost hath met To chain its flow.

A song for the death day of the brave-
A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays
To turn the flight,

And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watchfire's light.

And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
'Midst all high thought;

And a memory unto his mother's breast
With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful-beautiful and bright,

In life and death!

A song for the death day of the brave-
A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave.
With the Sword, his bride!

THE LAST WISH.

Go to the forest shade,

Seek thou the well known glade, Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, Gleaming through moss-tufts keep, Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep,

And bathed in hues of Summer's midnight sky.

Bring me their buds, to shed
Around my dying bed

A breath of May and of the wood's repose;
For I, in sooth, depart

With a reluctant heart,

That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.

Fain would I stay with thee

Alas! this may not be;

Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours!
Go where the fountain's breast

Catches, in glassy rest,

[bowers.

The dim green light that pours through laurel

I know how softly bright,
Steep'd in that tender light,

The water-lilies tremble there e'en now;
Go to the pure stream's edge,

And from its whisp'ring sedge

Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow!

Then, as in Hope's young days,
Track thou the antique maze
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound;
There is a lone white rose,

Shedding in sudden snows,

It faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.

Well know'st thou that fair tree

A murmur of the bee

Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above;
Bring me one pearly flower

Of all its clustering shower-
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love.

Gather one woodbine bough,
Then, from the lattice low

Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark, .
When by the hamlet last,

Through dim wood lanes we pass'd,

While dews were glancing to the glow worm's spark.

Haste! to my pillow bear

Those fragrant things and fair;

My hand no more may bind them up at eve-
Yet shall their odor soft

One bright dream round me waft

Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave!

And, oh! if thou would'st ask
Wherefore thy steps I task,

The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace'Tis that some thought of me,

When I am gone, may be

The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid mine image dwell
(Oh! break not thou the spell!)

In the deep wood and by the fountain side
Thou must not, my beloved!

Rove where we two have roved,
Forgetting her that in her Spring-time died!

THE PALMER.

ART thou come from the far-off land at last?

Thou hast wander'd long!

[pass'd

Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath

With the merry voice of song.

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart

Thou wilt seek-but all are gone;

They are parted e'en as waters part,
To meet in the deep alone!

And thou-from thy lip is fled the glow,
From thine eye the light of morn;

And the shades of thought o'erhang thy brow
And thy cheek with life is worn.

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore For thy wasted youth to pay?

Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more? Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way?

"I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, Yet I call not my bright youth lost!

I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, Yet I count not too dear the cost!

"I look on the leaves of the deathless tree-
These records of my track;

And better than youth in its flush of glee,
Are the memories they give me back!

66

They speak of toil, and of high emprise,

As in words of solemn cheer,

They speak of lonely victories

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear.

"They speak of scenes which have now become Bright pictures in my breast;

Where my spirit finds a glorious home,

And the love of my heart can rest.

"The colors pass not from these away,
Like tints of shower or sun;

Oh! beyond all treasures that know decay,
Is the wealth my soul hath won!

"A rich light thence o'er my life's decline,
An inborn light is cast;

For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, I bewail not my bright days past!"