The linnet takes up the hymn, unseen To whom belongs this valley fair, The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth O! that this lovely vale were mine, There would unto my soul be given, And thoughts would come of mystic mood, Eternity of Time! And did I ask to whom belong'd She spreads her glories o'er the earth, Yea, long as Nature's humblest child Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, Is built amid the skies! A CHURCHYARD DREAM. METHOUGHT that in a burial ground Upon a little daisied mound While faintly through my dream I heard Who with more gushing rapture sings The higher up in heaven float his unwearied wings! In that my mournful reverie, Such song of heavenly birth, Just then a child in sportive glee Came gliding o'er the graves, Floats dallying with the waves; And, overpowered with joy, slept in the eye of God. The flowers that shine all round her head For flowers are they that spring hath shed, And well the tenderest gleams may fall Of sunshine, on that hillock small On which she sleeps, for they have smiled O'er the predestined grave of that unconscious child. In bridal garments, white as snow, A solitary maid Doth meekly bring a sunny glow A churchyard seems a joyful place A soul is in that deep blue eye Too good to live on earth,—too beautiful to die. But Death behind a marble tomb Looks out upon his prey; And smiles to know that heavenly bloom Is yet of earthly clay. Far off I hear a wailing wide, And, while I gaze upon that bride, A silent wraith before me stands, And points unto a grave with cold, pale, clasped hands. A matron, beautiful and bright, Whose lustre tames the sparkling light Of the starry eyes of June, Is shining o'er the churchyard lone; Delighted dance five cherubs fair, And round their native urn shake wide their golden hair. Oh! children they are holy things, But the vulture stoops down from above, And, 'mid her orphan brood, bears off the parent dove. The young,-the youthful,—the mature As if nought lovely could endure While bow'd with age, and age's woes Of weary life, yon aged crone Can scarce with blind eyes find her husband's funeral-stonc. All dead the joyous, bright, and free, To whom this life was dear! The green leaves shiver'd from the tree, O dim wild world !-but from the sky I rose to walk in faith the darkling paths of earth. THE WIDOWED MOTHER. BESIDE her babe, who sweetly slept, And as the sobs thick-gathering came, Well might that lullaby be sad, On this cold-hearted earth; The sea will not give back its prey,— |