THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 97 O man, thou hast furrow'd the ocean wave, Thou hast track'd the stars in their pathless way— 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 I sweep o'er the field:-my waving wings 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; Yet call me not stern, although my sway THE ANGEL OF DEATH. Ye mark the flight of your passing years 99 823658 A 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 |