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When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waving light, Ye'11 never see me more in the long, gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow

cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush in the pool.

Ye '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthornshade,

And ye '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid;

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,

With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but ye '11 forgive me

now; Ye '11 kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and

brow; Nay, — nay,—ye must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, Ye shall not fret for me, mother, ye have another child.

If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my restingplace;

Though ye '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;

Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what ye say,

And be often and often with you, when ye think I -m far away.

156 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said gotd-night for evermore,

And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door,

Don't let Effie come to see me tifl my grave be growing green;

She '11 be a better child to you than I have ever been.

She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor;Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden more;But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn;
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year,
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother

dear.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OP DELIGHT. — Wordsworth.

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see, with eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

THE LOST PLEIAD.—Mrs. Hemans.

And is there glory from the heavens departed ? —
O void unmarked! — thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?

She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence;
No desert seems to part those urns of light,

'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

158 CORONACH.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning,— The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning, — Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray
Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?

Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are,
When, from its height afar,
A world sinks thus, — and yon majestic heaven

Shines not the less for that one vanished star!

CORONACH.*—Sir W. Scott.

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.
The fount, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory;

* Funeral sons'.

The autumn winds, rushing,
Waft the leaves that are serest,

But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corei,*

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and forever!

THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED.— Mrs. Southey.

Tread softly, —bow the head, — In reverent silence bow, —
No passing bell doth toll, —
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now. Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that paltry bed,

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state;
Enter! no crowds attend;
Enter! no guards defend
This palace-gate.

* The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.

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