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Dust of weary winters,

Dust of solemn years,

Dust that deepens in the silence,
As the minute wears.

On the shelf and wainscot,
Window-bars and wall,
Covering infinite devices
With its stealthy fall.

Hist! the spectres gather,
Break, and group again,
Wreathing, writhing, gibbering
Round that fearful stain:-

Blood upon the panels,

Blood upon the floor,

Blood that baffles wear and washing,

Red for evermore.

See, they pause and listen,
Where the bat that clings

Stirs within the crevices

Of the pannelings.

See, they pause and listen,
Listen through the air;
How the eager life has struggled
That was taken there!

See, they pause and listen,
Listen in the gloom;
For a startled breath is sighing,
Sighing through the room.

Sighing in the corners,

Sighing on the floor,

Sighing through the window-bars

That open nevermore.

Waken not those whispers ;

They will pain your ears;

Waken not the dust that deepens
Through the solemn years,-

Deepens in the silence,

Deepens in the dark;
Covering closer, as it gathers,
Many a fearful mark.

Hist the spectres gather,
Break and group again,
Wreathing, writhing, gibbering,
Round that fearful stain:

Blood upon the panels,

Blood upon the floor,

Blood that baffles wear and washin

Red for evermore.

ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

[Born in 1818. A Bishop in the Protestant Episcopal Church; author of Saul, a Mystery, and various other poetical as well as prose writings].

MARCH.

MARCH-march-march!

Making sounds as they tread,
Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead!

Every stride, every tramp,
Every footfall, is nearer;
And dimmer each lamp,
As darkness grows drearer;
But ho! how they march,
Making sounds as they tread;
Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead!

March-march-march!

Making sounds as they tread,

Ho-ho, how they laugh,

Going down to the dead!

How they whirl-how they trip,
How they smile, how they dally,
How blithesome they skip,

Going down to the valley;
Oh-ho, how they march,

Making sounds as they tread;
Ho-ho, how they skip,

Going down to the dead!

March-march-march!
Earth groans as they tread!
Each carries a skull;

Going down to the dead!
Every stride, every stamp,
Every footfall, is bolder;
'Tis a skeleton's tramp,

With a skull on his shoulder!

But ho! how he steps

With a high-tossing head,

That clay-covered bone,
Going down to the dead!

[Born about 1818.

WILLIAM LORD.

Author of Christ in Hades, a poem in eight Books, published in 1851. Mr. Lord is a minister of the Protestant Episcopal Church].

THE BROOK.

A LITTLE blind girl wandering,

While daylight pales beneath the moon;
And with a brook meandering,

To hear its gentle tune.

The little blind girl by the brook,

It told her something, you might guess,

To see her smile, to see her look
Of listening eagerness.

Though blind, a never-silent guide

Flowed with her timid feet along;

And down she wandered by its side
To hear the running song.

And sometimes it was soft and low,
A creeping music in the ground;
And then, if something checked its flow,
A gurgling swell of sound.

And now, upon the other side,

She seeks her mother's cot,
And still the noise shall be her guide,
And lead her to the spot:

For to the blind, so little free
To move about beneath the sun,
Small things like this seem liberty---
Something from darkness won.

But soon she heard a meeting stream,
And on the bank she followed still;
It murmured on, nor could she tell
It was another rill.

"Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?

And wherefore dost thou wander here?"

"I seek my mother's cot," she said,

"And surely it is near."

"There is no cot upon this brook;

In yonder mountains dark and drear, Where sinks the sun, its source it took;Ah wherefore art thou here?"

"Oh! sir, you are not true nor kind;
It is the brook, I know its sound;
Ah! why would you deceive the blind?
I hear it in the ground."

And on she stepped, but grew more sad,
And weary were her tender feet;

The brook's small voice seemed not so glad,
Its song was not so sweet.

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"Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?
And wherefore dost thou wander here?"
"I seek my mother's cot," she said,
"And surely it is near."

"There is no cot upon this brook."
"I hear its sound," the maid replied,
With dreamlike and bewildered look-
"I have not left its side."

"Oh go with me;
the darkness nears,

The first pale star begins to gleam."
The maid replied with bursting tears,
"It is the stream! It is the stream!"

WILLIAM WALLACE.

[Born in 1819. A lawyer, author of various poems-the longest of which is named Alban, a romance of New York, published in 1848].

GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

HERE are the houses of the dead. Here youth,
And age, and manhood stricken in his strength,
Hold solemn state, and awful silence keep,
While Earth goes murmuring in her ancient path,
And troubled Ocean tosses to and fro
Upon his mountainous bed impatiently,
And many stars make worship musical
In the dim-aisled abyss, and over all
The Lord of Life in meditation sits

Changeless, alone, beneath the large white dome
Of Immortality.

I pause and think

Among these walks lined by the frequent tombs;
For it is very wonderful. Afar

The populous city lifts its tall bright spires,

And snowy sails are glancing on the bay,
As if in merriment-but here all sleep;

They sleep, these calm, pale people of the past.

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