WHERE a green vale wends on its flowery way,
Dividing the umbrageous sloping wood,
Hemmed in by mountains shadowy and tall,
And hills, where graze the herds the livelong day,
Or pant beneath the cool and spreading boughs,
Lonely and dim the village church-yard lies.
The tuneful birds of day and closing eve
Have sought their balmy rest—the flocks are penned—
The stars look from their silvery thrones on high,
And the full moon smiles 'mong the lonely graves,
Placid as youthful mother watching o'er
The silent couches of her slumbering babes.
O'er some the mournful Willow folds her arms,
And Roses drench their cheeks with dewy tears;
While others, thick o'ergrown by tangled weeds,
Tombless, unepitaphed, neglected lie.
Along the outer walks dark Poplars stand-
Sad sentinels around the crowded yard;
And where their shadows fall along the ground
And thrifty grass, rises the little church.
WITHIN this spot are gathered to their homes
The rich man, and the beggar, and the sage,
And the poor idiot who never sipped
At learning's fount. Here babes and tender mothers,
Husbands and wives, tried friends, and youthful lovers,
Lie side by side together, yet apart
How far! No greetings kind they interchange;
No social converse ever here is held;
No fierce disputes, nor tears, nor sighs, nor moans,
Nor quick'ning pulses, through these chambers rise
To break the solemn stillness of the tomb;
But each in his pale drapery slumbereth on
In silence deep, and equally alone,
Save one, who holds a new and humble grave.
By it a maiden kneels, so fair-so young,
It seems she has not twice eight winters seen;
A loose white robe enveloping her form,
The tapering arms all bare, and on her neck,
Clear as descending snow, her long black hair
Hanging like sable drapery.
A little basket of fresh flowerets sat,
And from it she drew forth the milk-white rose, a
Watered it with her tears, and planted it
Upon the humble grave, and bade it bloom
Above the dead-then clasped her lily hands,
Raised her pale brow and streaming eyes to heaven,
And said, in tones so plaintive, yet so sweet,
That one might deem it were an Angel spoke-
"Forgive me, O my God! I knew not what
I did! Relieve this anguish-stricken heart-
This load of guilt-this agony remove :—
IANTHUS ! sorrowful hath been my days,
Since here they laid thee down-woful my nights,
And horrible the shapes that haunt my dreams.-
I knew not thou wast dear, till thou wast gone ;
I felt not that I was alone till then
An orphan-friendless-helpless, and that thou
Only on earth didst love and care for me;—
When thou wast here, all things to me were bright-
Kind friends smiled on me ever, as they passed,
With tender looks of approbation sweet;
Now thou art gone, there is no smile for me—
No love;-cold every gaze that meets mine eye.—
My troubled father from his grave comes back,
Upbraiding follows me along the vales;
My mother's ghost frowns on me in my dreams ;—
The flowers, the birds, the streams, all—all do chide,
Reproach, and curse me for thy mournful fate.-
Oh! I am desolate-alone on earth-
Forsaken a wanderer-IANTHUS, oh!
I would lay down this life to bring thee back,
To hear from thy dear lips one pardoning word ;—
But wo is me!" She cried, and threw herself
Upon the sod, and with her snowy arms
The cold turf clasped.
It is a mournful tale
LAONE'S grief, the beautiful, the young:
She was an orphan-circumstance her fate
Strangely and sadly shaped. In her tenth year,
Her aged father from his dying bed
His white locks slowly raised-low beat his pulse,
And shook his frame, as shake the quivering chords
Of rudely-stricken lute. Upon his brow,
Furrowed and high, Death had his signet set,
And on his cheeks the tears like ice-drops hung:
Beside him stood a youth, whose slender frame,
Parched up with the slow fever of his thought,
And pale and deep-lined brow, told he had burned
The midnight oil, and drunk at Helicon.
Long in low voice with him the old man spake ;
Then clasped in his the student's bony hand,
And gazed upon his face, as he would drink
His inmost thoughts, and leave upon his heart
Impress of this his last imploring look;
Then called the little girl, who wept aside,
And placed her hand within the youth's, and said,—
"IANTHUS, she is thine! Poor helpless child!
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