There is a shadow on my heart Sweet sister of my soul, with thee When summer was the goldenest, Of the buttercups and primroses I see the willow, and the spring I mourn for thee, sweet sister, When the wintry hours are here; Oh when the summer's banquet That thou art with the dead. We laid thee in thy narrow bed 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, As we softly near her trod,— One moment her pale lips trembled And we felt in the lonesome midnight, What a light on the path going downward When we thought how with faith unshrinking And, taking the hand of the Saviour, 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 grey barns, looking from their hazy hills All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, His winter log, with many a muffled blow. On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side crew- His alien horn, and then was heard no more, Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, By every light wind like a censer swung; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 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; Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, She had known Sorrow; he had walked with her, While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 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 MILD Bertha's was a home withdrawn Tall Lombard-trees hemmed all the lawn; Along the pebble paths the maid A statued Dian to the air Bequeathed its mellow light; Her pulses coursed their quiet ways, I love the broad bright world of snow, Which makes the woods a frozen show, 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. |