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“ Come and fear not!” it softly cried; “We wait to lead thee to thy home:" Then leapt my spirit to reply,

“I come! I long to come!”.
I heard them whisper o'er my bed, -
Another hour and she must die!"
I was too weak to answer them,

That endless life was nigh.
Another hour, with bitter tears
They mourn'd me as untimely dead,
And heard not how I sang a song

Of triumph o'er their head.
They bore me to the grave, and thought
How narrow was my resting-place;
My soul was roving high and wide

At will through boundless space.
They clothed themselves in robes of black,
Through the sad aisles the requiem rang,
Meanwhile the white-robed choirs of heaven

A holy pæan sang.
Oft from my Paradise I come
To visit those I love on earth;
I enter, un perceived, the door;

They sit around the hearth,
And talk in sadden'd tones of me,
As one that never can return;
How little think they that I stand

Among them as they mourn !
But Time will ease their grief, and Death
Will purge the darkness from their eyes;
Then shall they triumph when they learn
Heaven's solemn mysteries.

ANON.

Footsteps of the Angels.
WHEN the hours of Day are number'd,

And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumber'd,

To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, · And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light,

Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd

Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perish'd,

Weary with the march of life!
They, the boly ones, and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more ; And with them the being beauteous

Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,

Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,

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.

Utter'd not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer; Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depress'd and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died !

LONGFELLOW.

Angel-Songs.
THOSE halting tones that sound to you,

Are not the tones I hear;
But voices of the loved and lost

Then meet my longing ear.
I hear my angel mother's voice-

Those were the words she sung;
I hear my brother's ringing tones,

As once on earth they rung;
And friends that walk in white above

Come round me like a cloud,
And far above those earthly notes

Their singing sounds aloud.
There may be discord as you say;

Those voices poorly ring;
But there's no discord in the strain

Those upper spirits sing.
For they who sing are of the blest,

The calm and glorified,
Whose hours are one eternal rest

On heaven's sweet floating tide.
Their life is music and accord;

Their souls and hearts keep time In one sweet concert with the Lord

One concert vast, sublime.
And through the hymns they sang on earth,

Sometimes a sweetness falls
On those they loved and left below,

And softly homeward calls.
Bells from our own dear fatherland,

Borne trembling o'er the sea-
The narrow sea that they have cross'd,

The shores where we shall be.
Oh sing, sing on! beloved souls;

Sing cares and griefs to rest;
Sing, till entrancèd we arise
To join you 'mid the blest.

Mrs. H. B. STOWE.

The Mystery.
Thou art not dead; thou art not gone to dust;

No line of all thy loveliness shall fall
To formless ruin, smote by Time, and thrust

Into the solemn gulf that covers all.
Thou canst not wholly perish, though the sod

Sink with its violets closer to thy breast;
Though by the feet of generations trod,

The head-stone crumble from thy place of rest.
I keep for thee the living love of old,

And seek thy place in nature as a child
Whose hand is parted from his playmates' hold,

Wanders and cries along some dreary wild.
When in the watches of my heart I hear

The messages of purer life, and know The footsteps of thy spirit lingering near

The darkness hides the way that I should go. Canst thou not bid the empty realms restore

That form, the symbol of thy heavenly part ? Or in the fields of barren silence pour

That voice, the perfect music of thy heart? Oh, once ! once bending to these widow'd lips

Take back the tender warmth of life from me; Oh, let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse The light of mine, and give me death with thee !

BAYARD TAYLOR.

Days gone by.
In the silence of my chamber

When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean

Mutters in its charmed sleep,
Oft I hear the angel-voices

That have thrilld me long ago
Voices of my lost companions,

Lying deep beneath the snow.

O, the garden I remember,

In the gay and sunny spring,
When our laughter made the thickets

And the arching alleys ring!
O the merry burst of gladness!

O the soft and tender tone !
O the whisper never utter'd

Save to one fond ear alone!
O the light of life that sparkled

In those bright and bounteous eyes !
O the blush of happy beauty,

Tell-tale of the heart's surprise !
O the radiant light that girdled

Field and forest, land and sea,
When we all were young together,

And the earth was new to me!
Where are now the flowers we tended ?

Wither'd, broken, branch and stem;
Where are now the hopes we cherish'd ?

Scatter'd to the winds with them.
For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones !

Nursed in hope and rear'd in love,
Looking fondly ever upward
To the clear blue heaven above.

AYTOUN.

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter. Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,

When the spirit leaves this sphere, Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her

To those she long hath mourn'd for here? Hearts, from which 'twas death to sever,

Eyes, this world can ne'er restore, There, as warm, as bright as ever,

Shall meet us and be lost no more. Oh! if no other boon were given,

To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, Who would not try to win a Heaven

Where all we love shall live again ? MOORE.

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