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 thenMany, but bringing nought like him again! "Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, "Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke. "He told of far and sunny lands, which lie Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright must they be! for there are none that die, And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!' He came to guide us thither; but away The Happy call'd him, and he might not stay. "We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, And on his gleaming hair no touch of timeTherefore we hoped but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes-and finds not him! "We gather'd round him in the dewy hour "And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head Fell back, and mist 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 rear'd this cross in token where he lay, For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reach'd, 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: Heaven darkly works-yet, where the seed hath been There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. 66 Hope on, hope ever!-by the sudden springing "Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, But as a lovely song, to leave no trace: Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken, And fading mists the better path disclose, 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, Know, a prince hath died! By the drum's dull muffled sound, In his manhood's pride. By the chanted psalm that fills Learn, that from his harvests done, To his last repose. By the pall of snowy white Through the yew-trees gleaming bright; Which is the tenderest rite of all?— Requiem o'er the monarch's head, Farewell gun for warrior dead, Tells not each of human woe? If one chastening thought it brings Ere life's day grow dim! * A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of England and Wales. THE HEBREW MOTHER. THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, watch The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, And softly parting clusters of jet curls. To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach'd, |