Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer — They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory - bring flowers, bright flowers! CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. TORM on the midnight waters! The vast sky Rolls heavily in the darkness, like a shroud Shook by some warning spirit from the high And terrible wall of heaven. The mighty wave Tosses beneath its shadow, like the bold Upheavings of a giant from the grave, Which bound him prematurely to its cold And desolate bosom. Lo-they mingle now Tempest and heaving wave, along whose brow Trembles the lightning from its thick cloud fold. And it is very terrible! The roar Ascendeth unto heaven, and thunders back As the rent bark one moment rides to view, He stood upon the reeling deck - His form Told of a triumph man may never know Power underived and mighty.-' Peace, be still!' The great waves heard Him, and the storm's loud tone Went moaning into silence at His will: And the thick clouds, where yet the lightning shone, And slept the latent thunder, rolled away Until no trace of tempest lurked behind, Changing upon the pinions of the wind To stormless wanderers, beautiful and gay. Dread Ruler of the tempest! Thou, before Whose presence boweth the uprisen storm- Thy infinite regard-oh, breathe upon The storm and darkness of man's soul, the same THE THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL. HE ship's bell tolled! and slowly o'er the deck Far from their native skies, stood silent there With melancholy brow. From a low cloud That o'er the horizon hover'd, came the threat Of distant muttered thunder. Broken waves Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay Like some vindictive king, who meditates On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war. The ship's bell tolled! and, lo! a youthful form The parting blessing of his hoary sire, And the big tears that o'er his mother's cheek But there came a tone, Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas, 'I am the resurrection. Every heart Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised. There stood the chaplain his uncovered brow Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice, Rich as the balm from plants of Paradise, Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls Of dying men. It was a holy hour! There lay the wreck of youthful beauty-here Bent mourning manhood, while supporting Faith Cast her strong anchor 'neath the troubled wave. There was a plunge! The riven sea complained! Death from his briny bosom took her own. The awful fountains of the deep did lift Their subterranean portals, and he went Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul, In all the funeral pomp, the guise of woe, The monumental grandeur, with which earth Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad, Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth. NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. "I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history. The world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever."-WEBSTER'S Speech. 2 EW England's dead! New England's dead! NEW On every hill they lie; On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword Their bones are on the Northern hill, The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, Then glory to that valiant band, Oh, few and weak their numbers were A handful of brave men; But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, And sent to them the victory. They left the ploughshare in the mould, The corn, half-garnered, on the plain, And mustered, in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress, To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, To perish, or o'ercome their foe. And where are ye, O fearless men? I call: the hills reply again That ye have passed away; That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast The starry flag, 'neath which they fought From their old graves shall rouse them not, THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. (OMEWHAT back from the village street SOMET Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; "Forever-never! Never forever!" Halfway up the stairs it stands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" |