He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his

heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies ;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,-rejoicing, --sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought !

ENDYMION.

The rising moon has hid the stars ;
Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,

When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;

Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,

In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.

O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes! 0, drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds,--as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;

And whispers, in its song,
“ Where hast thou stayed so long !"

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER.

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content,

I wander through the world ; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent

And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife

Close in my heart was locked, And in the sweet repose of life

A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,-away!

Too long did it remain !
So long, that both by night and day

It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;

To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;

Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er,

I bathe mine eyes and see; And wander through the world once more,

A youth so light and free.

Two locks,—and they are wondrous fair,

Left me that vision mild;
The brown is from the mother's hair,

The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,

Pale grows the evening-red; And when the dark lock I behold,

I wish that I were dead.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.

NO HAY PÁJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTAÑO.

Spanish Provera

The sun is bright,--the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear

The blue-bird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky, Where waiting till the west wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new;-the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ;

There are no birds in last year's nest !

All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight! And learn from the soft heavens above

The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For O l it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest ; For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest I

THE RAINY DAY.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground Gopa. Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.