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Looking each other wildly in the eyes ;
Methought I heard the gates of heaven close;
She flung herself against me, burst in tears,
As a wave bursts in spray. She cover'd me
With her wild sorrow, as an April cloud
With dim dishevell’d tresses hides the hill
On which its heart is breaking. She clung to me
With piteous arms, and shook me with her sobs :
For she had lost her world, her heaven, her God,
And now had nought but me and her great wrong.
She did not kill me with a single word,
But once she lifted her tear-dabbled face-
Had hell gaped at my feet I would have leapt
Into its burning throat, from that pale look.
Still it pursues me like a haunting fiend;
It drives me out to the black moors at night,
Where I am smitten by the hissing rain;
And ruffian winds, dislodging from their troops,
Hustle me shrieking, then with sudden turn
Go laughing to their fellows. Merciful God;
It comes-that face again, that white, white face,
Set in a night of hair ; reproachful eyes,
That make me mad. Oh, save me from those eyes !
They will torment me even in the grave,
And burn on me in Tophet!

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My heart's on fire by hell, and on I drive
To outer blackness, like a blazing ship.

(He rushes away.


By HALLECK, an American poet.
GREEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days:
None knew thee but to love thee,

None named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep;
And long where thou art lying

Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven

Like thine are laid on earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow :
But I've in vain essay'd it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free :
The grief is fix'd too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

AUTUMN-AND LIFE'S AUTUMN. Extracted from a volume of poems published a few years ago, called The Mountain Decameron. SEPTEMBER woods, September skies, so soft and sunny all ! Unfaded and unfallen your leaves, and yet so soon to fall : Ah, what avails that dying smile which gilds your fading

green? White Winter peeps, like Death, behind, to shut the fare

well scene!

Stretch'd beautiful the landscape lies, a mockery of May, Like some fair corpse, yet beautiful, laid out but for decay; Howl, ye wild winds ! beat, wintry rains !-Heaven's groans

and tears !-more meet Than such a smile o'er Summer dead,-80 green a


Less sad the wild woods yellowing, their empty arms less sad, When all their leaves, as torn-off hair, they strew like

mourners mad On all the winds, and naked stand, the mountain's skeletons, High beating o’er the waterfalls that thunder back their


September skies, September woods ! How like Life's soft

decline, When round a heart too old to hope its farewell beauties

shine! When every pangless minute steals a mournful preciousness, Till e'en Life's blessings turn to pain, so soon no more to


With health's mock spring in every limb, its glow, its easy

breath, More horror flings round thy black frost, thy springless

Winter, Death ! Though like this winter in disguise, Death steals on with a

smile, It comes, it comes, eclipsing all this bloomy world the


As one borne down a pleasant stream toward a terrific fall,
In its blue depths and cowslip banks no pleasantness at all
Finds, for the failing of his heart in horror of th' abyss-
So sad, though smooth, Life's latter stream; for lo! the

precipice ! Though, like your sapless leaves still green, still hangs th’

unalter'd hair, Time, that delays its snow, will soon the very skull lay

bare. Oh, Autumn woods, and fields, and flowers ! to you Spring

comes again To clothe, to paint, to beautify! To man the mourner

when ?

The blossom shall remount its bough, each little flower its

bankEach, blushing to the Spring-God's smile, resume its being's Th' immortal violet burst the sod: while man, proud man,


whose foot Treads its pale beauty down shall lie in darkness 'neath its


Though Faith points to a prouder home for Man's ejected

soul, His mortal part what creed forbids a backward eye to roll? A valley shepherd, call'd to change his cottage for a throne, Might sigh to leave his fields, his fold, and all his little own. So I, while men more worthy, more ambitious of Heaven's

crown, O’erlook Death's gulf, I shivering stand, and still look back

or down : Not golden groves of angels tempt my wishes from these

vales, Enough of Paradise for me, "mine own romantic” Wales !



The Indians imagine that the way is long, and the only communication between Heaven and Earth is by means of the wild forest-bird, seldom seen. How beautifully Mrs. HEMANS embodies the idea in the following poem! Thou art come from the spirit-land, thou bird !

Thou art come from the spirit-land !
Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard,

And tell of the shadowy band.

We know that the bowers are green and fair

In the light of that summer shore,
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,

They are there-and they weep no more.

And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst

From the fountain of Youth ere now,
For there must the stream in its freshness burst

Which none may find below.

And we know that they will not be lured to earth,

From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or song of mirth,

Though their hearts were once with ours;

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,

And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our father's days

Which are told to others now !

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain !

Can those who have loved forget ?
We call and they answer not again-

Do they love, do they love us yet ?
Doth the warrior think of his brother there,

And the father of his child ?
And the chief, of those who were wont to share

His wanderings through the wild ?

We call them far through the silent night,

And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,

But say, do they love there still ?


By FREDERICK TENNYSON, brother of the Laureat, who has lately published a volume of very beautiful poems, from which this is taken.

The winds are hush'd, the clouds have ceased to sail,

And lie like islands in the Ocean-day,

The flowers hang down their heads, and far away A faint bell tinkles in a sun-drown'd vale ;

No voice but the cicala's whirring note-No motion but the grasshoppers that leap;

The reaper pours into his burning throat The last drops of his flask, and falls asleep.

The rippling flood of a clear mountain stream
Fleets by, and makes sweet babble with the stones;

The sleepy music with its murmuring tones
Lays me at noontide in Arcadian dream;

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