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He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies ;
A tear out of his eyes.
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 !
The rising moon has hid the stars ;
Lie on the landscape green,
And silver white the river gleams,
Had dropt her silver bow
On such a tranquil night as this,
When, sleeping in the grove,
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
In silence and alone
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,
And kisses the closed eyes
O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes! 0, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
No one is so accursed by fate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds,--as if with unseen wings,
And whispers, in its song,
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 !
It ever comes again.
The end lies ever in my thought;
To a grave so cold and deep
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 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.
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;
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining;
Some days must be dark and dreary.
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.