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There is a shadow on my heart
I cannot fling aside-

Sweet sister of my soul, with thee
Hope's brightest roses died!
I'm thinking of the pleasant hours
That vanished long ago,

When summer was the goldenest,
And all things caught its glow:
I'm thinking where the violets
In fragrant beauty lay,

Of the buttercups and primroses
That blossomed in our way.

I see the willow, and the spring
O'ergrown with purple sedge;
The lilies and the scarlet pinks
That grew along the hedge;
The meadow where the elm-tree threw
Its shadows dark and wide,
And sister-flowers in beauty grew,
And perished side by side.
O'er the accustomed vale and hill
Now Winter's robe is spread;
The beetle and the moth are still,
And all the flowers are dead.

I mourn for thee, sweet sister,

When the wintry hours are here;
But when the days grow long and bright,
And skies are blue and clear-

Oh when the summer's banquet
Among the flowers is spread,
My spirit is most sorrowful

That thou art with the dead.

We laid thee in thy narrow bed
When autumn winds were high-
Thy life had taught us how to live,
And then we learned to die.

PHOEBE CAREY.

[Born towards 1822, died in 1871. Sister of Alice Carey, with whom she was closely associated both in daily life and in literary work].

DEATH SCENE.

DYING, still slowly dying,

As the hours of night rode by,
She had lain since the light of sunset
Was red on the evening sky,
Till after the middle watches,

As we softly near her trod,—
When her soul from its prison-fetters
Was loosed by the hand of God.

One moment her pale lips trembled
With the triumph she might not tell,
As the sight of the life immortal
On her spirit's vision fell;
Then the look of rapture faded,
And the beautiful smile was faint,
As that in some convent-picture
On the face of a dying saint.

And we felt in the lonesome midnight,
As we sat by the silent dead,

What a light on the path going downward
The feet of the righteous shed;

When we thought how with faith unshrinking
She came to the Jordan's tide,

And, taking the hand of the Saviour,
Went up on the heavenly side.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

[Born in 1822, died in 1872. Mr. Read was a painter, and of late years lived mostly in Florence. His longest poem is named The New Pastoral, in 37 books, published in 1855].

THE CLOSING SCENE.

WITHIN his sober realm of leafless trees
The russet Year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The grey barns, looking from their hazy hills
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low;
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed

His winter log, with many a muffled blow.

On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight,
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint,
And like a star slow drowning in the light

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side crew-
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before,-
Silent till some replying warder blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more,

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young,
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest

By every light wind like a censer swung;

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,
The busy swallows, circling ever near,
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plenteous year;

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
To warn the reaper of the rosy east,—

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn.

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale

Made echo to the distant cottage-loom.

There was no bud, no bloom, upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night;
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,

Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch ;
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known Sorrow; he had walked with her,
Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And War, to her twice bowing his dark plume,
Regave the swords to rust upon her wall.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed, Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene, And neighbours came and smoothed the careful shroud, Where double winter closed the autumn scene.

BERTHA.

MILD Bertha's was a home withdrawn
Beyond the city's din;

Tall Lombard-trees hemmed all the lawn;
And, up the long straight walks, a dawn
Of blossoms shone within.

Along the pebble paths the maid
Walked with the early hours,
With careful hands the vines arrayed,
And plucked the small intruding blade
From formal plots of flowers.

A statued Dian to the air

Bequeathed its mellow light;
She called the flying figure fair,
The forward eyes and backward hair,
And praised the marble's white.

Her pulses coursed their quiet ways,
From heart to brain controlled;
She read and praised in studied phrase
The bards whom it were sin to praise
In measured words and cold.

I love the broad bright world of snow,
And every strange device

Which makes the woods a frozen show,
The rivers hard and still; but oh
Ne'er loved a heart of ice!

AURELIA.

WHERE flamed a field of flowers, and where Sang noisy birds and brooks,

Aurelia to the frolic air

Shook down her wanton waves of hair,

With laughter-loving looks.

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