The sweeping wind, the glittering rill,
Seem murmuring with his music still;
Yon flower that glows above the clod
Seems proud that on its stem he trod.
"Tis thus the poet godlike flings

His glory round earth's lowliest things;
Half earth, half heaven-half pure, half gross,
He stamps himself on gold or dross :
Warm, glowing, strong, soft, tender, faint-
Which all can feel and few can paint.

THE CHURCHYARD.

BY CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE thought of early death was in my heart,
Of the cold grave, and "dumb forgetfulness;"
And with a weight like lead,

An overwhelming dread

Mysteriously my spirit did oppress.

And forth I roamed in that distressful mood,
Abroad into the sultry, sunless day;

All hung with one huge cloud,

That like a sable shroud

On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay.

Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms (Instinctively my feet had wandered there), And through that awful gloom,

Headstone and altar tomb

Among the dark heaps gleamed with ghastlier glare.

Death-death was in my heart, as there I stood;
Mine eyes fast fixed on a grass grown mound;
As though they would descry

The loathsome mystery

Consummating beneath that charnel ground.

Death, death was in my heart-Methought I felt
A heavy hand that pressed me down below-
And some resistless power

Made me, in that dark hour,

Half long to be, where I abhorred to go.

Then suddenly-albeit no breeze was felt-
Through the tall tree-tops ran a shivering sound-
Forth from the western heaven

Flashed out the flaming levin,

And one long thunder peal rolled echoing round.

One long, long echoing peal, and all was peace—
Cool rain-drops gemmed the herbage-large and few ;
And that dull vault of lead

Disparting overhead,

Down beamed an eye of soft celestial blue.

And up toward the heavenly portal sprang

A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain-
Up from my very feet-

And Oh! how clear and sweet

Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain.

66 Blithe, blessed creature! take me there with thee," I cried in spirit-passionately cried

But higher still, and higher

Rang out that living lyre,

As if the bird disdained me in its pride.

And I was left below, but now no more

Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Night; Up with the skylark's lay

My soul had winged its way

To the supernal source of Life and Light.