Fair ship, that from the Italian shore With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er! So draw him home to those that mourn All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our poor love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks! Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see And silent traces of the past So then were nothing lost to man; And love will last as pure and whole PERSONAL RESURRECTION. That each, who seems a separate whole, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other's good; What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing place to clasp and say, "Farewell! We lose ourselves in light." SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP. Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I wrong the grave with fears untrue; Be near us when we climb or fall; Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours And in the dark church, like a ghost, Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. When on my bed the moonlight falls, Thy marble bright in dark appears, The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, I sleep till dusk is dipped in gray; And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid vale from coast to coast, DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME. So many worlds, so much to do, The fame is quenched that I foresaw, The head hath missed an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass the path; that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds; What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. -Arthur Henry Hallam, ob. 1833. W Footsteps of Angels. WHEN the hours of day are numbered, And the voices of the night Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlor wall; Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished By the roadside fell and perished, They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the being beauteous Comes that messenger divine, Lays her gentle hand in mine; And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, O, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! When the Lamp is Shattered. When hearts have once mingled," Loves first leaves the well-built nest; To endure what it once possest. Oh Love! who bewailest The fraility of all things here, For yout cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Like the sun from from a wintry sky. Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. -Percy Bysshe Shelley. L Man's Mortality. IKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas hadE'en such is man; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is doneThe rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shaddow flies, The gourd consumes-and man-he dies? Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of the swanE'en such is man-who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and deathThe grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew's ascended. The hour is short, the span is long, The swan's near death- man's life is done! -Simon Wastel OF Sleep. "He giveth His beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxvi. 2. F all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Among the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace surpassing this"He giveth his beloved sleep?" What would we give to our beloved? G Fitz-Greene Halleck; To RIEVE not that I die young-Is it not well Ah! who would linger till bright eyes grow dim, . Till fancy's many-colored wings are furl'd, Thus would I pass away-yielding my soul -Lady Flora Hastings: Swan Song. |