Imatges de pÓgina


The silver cord in twain is snapped,

The golden bowl is broken,
The mortal mould in darkness wrapped,

The words funereal spoken;
The tomb is built, or the rock is cleft,

Or delved is the grassy clod;
And what for mourning man is left-

O what is left-but God?
The tears are shed that mourned the dead,

The flowers they wore are faded ;
The twilight dun hath veiled the sun,

And hope's sweet dreaming shaded; And the thoughts of joy that were planted deep,

From our heart of hearts are riven; And what is left us when we weep

O what is left-but Heaven ?


WHISPER, thou tree, thou lonely tree,

One where a thousand stood ;
Well might proud tales be told of thee,

Last of the solemn wood !

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,

With leaves so darkly green? Silence is round, and noontide glows;

Tell us what thou hast seen ?

I've seen the forest shadows lie

Where now men reap the corn,
I have seen the kingly chase ride by,

Through the deep glades at morn.

• With the glance of many a gallant spear,

And the wave of many a plume, And the bounding of a hundred deer,

It has lit the woodland's gloom.

"I have seen the knight and his train ride past,

With his banner borne on high; O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast

From his gleaming panoply.

.The pilgrim at my feet hath laid,

His palm branch 'mid the flowers, And told his beads, and meekly prayed,

Kneeling at Vesper hours.

. And the merry men of wild and glen,

In the green array they wore, Have feasted here, with the red wine's cheer,

And the hunter songs of yore.

And the minstrel, resting in my shade,

Hath made the forest ring With the lordly tales of the high crusade,

Once loved by chief and king.

• But now the noble forms are gone;

That walked the earth of old, The soft wind hath a mournful tone,

The sunny light looks cold.
• There is no glory left us now

Like the glory with the dead;
I would that where they slumber low

My latest leaves were shed.'
Oh! thou dark tree, thou lonely tree,

Thou mournest for the past;
A peasant's home in thy shade I see,

Embowered from every blast.

A lovely and a mirthful sound

Of laughter meets my ear;
The poor man's children sport around,

On the turf, and nought to fear.
And the village bells are on the breeze

That stirs thy leaf, dark tree:
How can I mourn, 'midst things like these,

For the stormy past with thee?


THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there;
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair.
The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead,
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted.
Let us be patient! these severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.
We see

but dimly through the mists and vapors Amid these earthly damps; What seem to us but dim funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.
THERE IS NO DEATH; what seems so, is transition,

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life Elysian,

Whose portals we call death.
She is not dead—the child of our affection-

But gone into that school, Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.


In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

She lives—whom we call dead.
Day after day, we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air,
Year after year her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.
And though at times, impetuous with emotion,

And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean

That cannot be at rest,

We will be patient! and assuage the feeling

We cannot wholly stay,
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.


rmans, As the light leaf whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect's little world of cares, Descends in silence, while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! Such is man's doom—and ere an hour be flown Reflect, thou trifler, such may be thine own.

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