Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear:

Who round the hearth-stone used to close,
After the evening prayer.

And speak of what these pages said,

In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,

They fill'd one house with gleeTheir graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night,
O'er each fair sleeping brow,

She had each folded flower in sight -
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the west
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar's shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep!
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd

Above the noble slain ;

He wrapt his colors round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

And look'd from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.