It writhes!—it writhes!-with mortal pangs Out-out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, That the play is the tragedy, "Man," HYMN. For my Brother's ordination. By LONGFELLOW. CHRIST to the young man said: "Yet one thing more; Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor, Within this temple Christ again, unseen, Those sacred words hath said, And his invisible hands to-day have been And evermore beside him on his way, say, Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, Beside him in the dark Gethsemane O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, VOICES OF POESIE. From the anonymous volume already cited. It is thy way of telling: in the woods, Thou speakest thus, and choosest for thy voice, ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. That she will no more come-that from her cheek That was so exquisitely pure, the dew Such treasures of affection? She was loved AN OLD MAID'S RETROSPECTIONS. From a recent number of Chambers's Journal. I LOOK into the dreamy past, and see-what do I see? to me! I see my girlhood full of hope, my lover true and brave; Upon thy finger, till I put another in its place." That first love-gift, see, here it is-Oh, what a slender band Though tethered by a golden chain to this poor wither'd hand. And it was in that girlish time when I perchance might see A youthful mother's glance of pride at the babe upon her knee. I envied her that happiness, and oh, my heart beat wild That I might one day be the matron mother of his child. 'Twas woman's nature in me spoke; but scarcely had the thought Been form'd, ere maiden pride and shame a mingled colour brought: Vain was the guiltless blush, for though these hopes of mine might seem So near fulfilment then, alas, they proved indeed a dream. Too poor to wed, my lover true, left his own native strand, Thinking to win a home for me in a far distant land. Years pass'd, he wrote that silver threads were mingling with his hair. They were in mine-those fruits, from seed sown by the hand of Care. Now, whiter than the snow-clad hill, or foam that crests the wave, Are my thin locks; his weary head rests in a foreign grave. Ay, maidens, you may sigh; God grant that happier be your lot; For me, no power could make me wish this true-love dream forgot. But after all my pains, my fears, my visions of the past, The first by the Eternal sent to meet and welcome me. THE TWO APRILS. Contributed to Frazer's Magazine, by the author of a poem called Reverberations. YOUNG April treads light in the woodland, And smiles through her tears in the lane, The breath of the old dead breezes, The larks that I heard in my childhood, VOL. VI. N 89 Sing yet of the loving and longing And I wake from my dread despairing And still as she passes by me, I see my pale dreams revive, And the joy and the courage of spring-time O world! thou art surely youthful; Shall bring the great summer to thee. TO AN ABSENT CHILD. From an old periodical, where it appeared anonymously. WHERE art thou, bird of song? Brightest one, and dearest! Other nests thou cheerest; Sweet thy warbling skill To each ear that heard thee, But 'twas sweetest still To the heart that rear'd thee. |