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THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

97

O man, thou hast furrow'd the ocean wave,
Hast wrested the gold from the earth's dull cave,
And lit thy steps by its glittering ray—

Thou hast track'd the stars in their pathless way—
Hast called from the mountain's marble breast
Bright gems, like the visions which haunt thy rest.
A sacred fire to thy lips is given—
Thou hast breathed in song thy dream of Heaven.
The spell of the unchain'd thought is thine,
And the mighty will, yet I call thee mine.
In festive hour, from the social throng

I banish the smile, and hush the song!

Sad hearts, lone homes, mark my way of wrath, And tears of men are the dew of my path!

When armies come forth in their martial might
To battle for glory, and honor, and right;
When the trumpet sounds, and the clashing steel
rings,

I sweep o'er the field:-my waving wings
Stir the quivering banner and pendant plume,
And I mark mine own and speak their doom.

At calm of night, when the moon looks down Serene and pale o'er the slumbering town, When music and voices, and sounds of day, Have pass'd from the silent halls away;

When the streets re-echo no passer's tread;
When flit round the tranquil sleeper's head
The shadowy circle of golden dreams,
And hush'd in repose all being seems-
Lo! a shriek of fear and a sound of strife,
And the struggling groan of the parting life
Break shrill and dread on the midnight air,
Mingled with wailing and tones of prayer,
The watcher pillows the dying head,
The mourner bends o'er the cold, still dead-
O starry night! thou art bright and fair,
But my solemn presence too is there!

Yet call me not stern, although my sway
Bid peasant and monarch pass away;
The strong-arm'd youth, the maid in her bloom,
O children of earth, I call ye home!
Are ye happy here? Would ye remain,
Sullied by sin?-bound by the chain
Of strong affection which grasps the soul
And bows it to earth in its fierce control?
In your yearning fondness, ye have made
Gods of the things which alter and fade.
Bright hopes are nursed in the trusting breast
Like the unfledg'd brood of the wild bird's nest;
They found their wings,-one by one have gone,
Their home is desolate, left and lone.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

Ye mark the flight of your passing years
By the whiten'd locks and the trace of tears.
I set you free from the binding chain,
I wash you pure from the guilty stain.
Th' undying soul, the spark of heaven,
The holy light to your weak frames given,
Fears not my power-I bid it rise,
Perfect and pure, to the happy skies.
Children of sorrow! I make you bless'd-
I call you home to a glorious rest!

99

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The Butterfly.

FROM THE FRENCH OF DE LAMARTINE.

BORN with the spring-time, with the roses dying, Wafted on the Zephyr's wing to the skies so

bright;

On the newly-open'd bosom of the flowers lying, Richly steep'd in perfume, in azure, and in

light,

Shaking off the golden dust to its pinions given, Floating like the summer's breath to the vaults of heaven

This is the Butterfly's destiny so fair!

Resembling desire, that with unresting wing, Ever unsatisfied, glancing on everything, Returns at last to Heaven to seek for pleasure there.

"ARE WE ALMOST THERE?"

101

Are we almost There?"

"ARE we almost there-are we almost there?" Said a dying girl as she drew near home"Are those our poplar-trees which rear

Their forms so high 'gainst heaven's blue dome?"

Then she talk'd of her flowers, and thought of the well,

Where the cool water splash'd o'er the large

white stone,

And she said it would soothe like a fairy spell, Could she drink from that fount when the fever

was on.

While yet so young, and her bloom grew less,

They had borne her away to a kindlier clime; For she would not tell that 't was only distress Which had gather'd Life's rose in its sweet spring-time.

And she had look'd, when they bade her look, At many a ruin and many a shrine

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