Ye have no voice, no sound,

Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek;
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown'd
Yet to my soul ye speak.

Alas! for those that lay

Down in the dust without their hope of old!
Backward they look'd on life's ricli banquet-day,
But all beyond was cold.

Every sweet wood-note then,

And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow
And each glad murmur from the homes of men
Made it more hard to go.

But we, when life grows dim,
When its last melodies float o'er our way,
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim,
Its flitting lights decay ;-

E'en though we bid farewell

Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees,
Yet may we lift our hearts, in hope to dwell
'Midst brighter things than these,

And think of deathless flowers,

And of bright streams to glorious valleys given,
And know the while, how little dream of ours
Can shadow forth of Heaven.

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.*

COME to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,

And rest to us, is given

By the cool soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,

And the turf whereon we lie.
When the burden and the heat
Of labor's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door.

* "The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the sun set tree." See Captain Sherer's interesting Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
Yes; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshness round!

And the gale that fans our brows.
But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noontide heat
There shall be no more snow, *
To weary wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,

To the Sabbath of our God.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;

The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

FORGET them not-though now their name
Be but a mournful sound,

Though by the hearth its utterance claim.

A stillness round.

Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,

And shadows, never mark'd before,
Brood o'er each tree;

And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!

Nor where their love and life went by
Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there
A charm, not elsewhere found ;
Sad--yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream-the ground.

* "Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen
Wo kein schnoe mehr ist "

VOL. II.-25

Schiller's Nadowessiche Todtenklage

Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not!—no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread
Still tend their garden-bower,

Still commune with the holy dead

In each lone hour!

The holy dead!-oh! bless'd we are,

That we may call them so,

And to their image look afar,

Through all our woe!

Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth,
As relics we may hold,

That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power

Thus o'er our souls is given,

If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!

HE WALK'D WITH GOD,*
(Genesis v. 24.)

He walk'd with God, in holy joy,
While yet his days were few;
The deep glad spirit of the boy

To love and reverence grew.
Whether, each nightly star to count,

The ancient hills he trode,

Or sought the flowers by stream and fount-
Alike he walk'd with God.

The graver noon of manhood came,
The full of cares and fears;

One voice was in his heart-the same

It heard through childhood's years.

"These two little pieces," ("He walked with God,' and 'Ths Rod of Aaron,') says the author in one of her letters, "are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on Scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones of the New." The two following are subjoined, as having been (probably) intended to form a part of the same series.

i

THE ROD OF AARON.-THE VOICE OF GOD

Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains,
O'er his green pasture-sod,

A shepherd king on eastern plains
The patriarch walk'd with God.

And calmly, brightly, that pure life
Melted from earth away;

No cloud it knew, no parting strife,
No sorrowful decay;

He bow'd him not, like all beside,
Unto the spoiler's rod,

But join'd at once the glorified,
Where angels walk with God!

So let us walk!-the night must come
To us that comes to all;

We through the darkness must go home,
Hearing the trumpet's call.
Closed is the path for evermore,
Which without death he trod;
Not so that way, wherein of yore
His footsteps walk'd with God!

THE ROD OF AARON.
(Numbers xvii. 8.)

Was it the sigh of the southern gale
That flush'd the almond bough?
Brightest and first the young Spring to hail,
Still its red blossoms glow.

Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers
With a kindling look of love?

Oh, far and deep, and through hidden bowers,
That smile of heaven can rove!

No! from the breeze and the living light

Shut was the sapless rod;

But it felt in the stillness a secret might,
And thrill'd to the breath of God.

E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air,
O'er our glad spirits move;

And all such things as are good and fair,
Be the blossoms, its track that prove!

THE VOICE OF GOD.

"I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.'-Gen ili 1. AMIDST the thrilling leaves, thy voice

At evening's fall drew near;

Father! and did not man rejoice
That blessed sound to hear?

Did not his heart within him burn,
Touch'd by the solemn tone?
Not so!-for, never to return,
Its purity was gone.

Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower
His spirit shook with dread,
And call'd the cedars, in that hour,

To veil his conscious head.

Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow,
Each whisper of the shade,

Grant me, my God, thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid!

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

"And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.

"And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink?

"And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made ."—Exodus, xv. 23–25.

WHERE is the tree the prophet threw

Into the bitter wave?

Left it no scion where it grew,

The thirsting soul to save?

Hath nature lost the hidden power
Its precious foliage shed?

Is there no distant eastern bower
With such sweet leaves o'erspread?

Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours

Which yet may well imbue

Earth's many troubled founts with showers
Of heaven's own balmy dew.

Oh! mingled with the cup of grief

Let faith's deep spirit be!

And every prayer shall win a leaf

From that bless'd healing tree!

THE PENITENT'S OFFERING,

(St. Luke, vii. 37, 38.)

THOU that with pallid cheek,

And eyes in sadness meek,