And when she is borne to repose alone
'Neath the fresh cut sod, and the church-yard stone, I keep close by her and do my best
To lift the dark pall from the sleeper's breast;
And linger behind with the beautiful clay,
When friends and kindred have gone their way!
When the baby whose dimples I used to fan,
I see completing its earthly span,
I long, with a spirit so pure, to go
From the scene of sorrow and tears below,
Till I rise so high I can catch the song
Of welcome that bursts from the angel throng,
As it enters its rest-but alas! alas!
I am only from death to death to pass.
I hasten away over mountain and flood,
And find I'm alone on a field of blood.
The soldier is there-but he breathes no more;
And there is the plume, but 't is stained with gore;
I flutter and strive in vain, to place
The end of his scarf on his marble face;
And find not even a sigh, to take
To her whose heart is so soon to break!
I fly to the flowers I loved so much
They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch.
The earth is in ruins!—I turn to the sky-
It frowns!-and what can I do, but die?
My boy, as gently on my breast,
From infant sport thou sink'st to rest,
And on my hand I feel thee put,
In playful dreams, thy little foot,
The thrilling touch sets every string
Of my full heart a quivering;
For, ah! I think, what chart can show
The ways through which this foot may go?
Its print will be, in childhood's hours,
Traced in the garden round the flowers;
But youth will bid it leap the rills-
Bathe in the dews of distant hills-
Roam o'er the vales, and venture out
When riper years would pause and doubt;
Nor brave the pass, nor try the brink
Where youth's unguarded foot may sink.
But what, when manhood tints thy cheek,
Will be the ways this foot may seek?
Is it to lightly pace the deck?
To, helpless, slip from off the wreck?
Or wander o'er a foreign shore,
Returning to thy home no more,
Until the bosom now thy pillow,
Is low and cold beneath the willow?
Or, is it for the battle plain?
Beside the slayer and the slain—
Till there its final step be taken?
There, sleep thine eye, no more to waken?
Is it to glory, or to shame—
To sully, or to gild thy name
Is it to happiness or wo,
This little foot is made to go?
But wheresoe'er its lines may fall,
Whether in cottage, or in hall;
O, may it ever shun the ground
Where'er His foot had not been found,
Who on his path below hath shed
A living light, that all may tread
Upon his earthly steps; and none
E'er dash the foot against a stone!
Yet if thy way is marked by fate,
As guilty, dark and desolate-
If thou must float, by vice and crime,
A wreck upon the stream of time-
Oh! rather than behold that day,
I'd know this foot, in lightsome play,
Would bound with guiltless, infant glee
Upon the sod that shelters me.
THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they!"
Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
In diamond beads-and over the breast
Of the quivering lake, he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the light of the morn were seen
Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair—
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there,
That all had forgotten for him to prepare—
'Now, just to set them a thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I 'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they 've left for me
Shall tchick!' to tell them I 'm drinking!"
THE eye was closed, and calm the breast-
'Twas sleep-the weary was at rest,
While fancy, on her rainbow wings,
Ranged through a world of new-made things,
'Mid regions pure and visions bright,
Formed but to mock the waking sight.
For ah! how light does slumber sit
On sorrow's brow-how quickly flit
From her pale throne, when envious care
Comes robed in clouds, and frowning, there!
Again-I saw the falling lid,
And from his sight the world was hid:
The lip was moved the knee was bent—
The heavy-laden spirit went,
Bearing her burden from the dust
Up to her only rock of trust;
And, childlike, on her Father's breast
Cast off the load, and found her rest!
And this was prayer-'t was faith and love
Communing with a God above!
At length that eye was locked-the key
Had opened heaven-'t was Death!—'t was he
Had sweetly quelled the mortal strife,
And to the saint the gates of life
Unfolded. On the sleeper's brow
Lay the smooth seal of quiet now,
Which none could break. The soul that here
Dwelt with eternal things so near
Had burst her bonds, to soar on high,
And left to earth the thrice-closed eye!
WORSHIP BY THE ROSE-TREE.
AUTHOR of beauty, Spirit of Power-
Thou, who didst will that the Rose should be, Here is the place, and this is the hour
To feel thy presence and bow to thee! Bright is the world with the sun's first rays; Clear is the dew on the soft, green sod;
The Rose-Tree blooms, while the birds sing praise, And earth gives glory to nature's God.
Under this beautiful work of thine,
The flowery boughs, that are bending o'er
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