"The barley-harvest was nodding white, When my children died on the rocky height, And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. But now the season of rain is nigh,

The sun is dim in the thickening sky,

And the clouds in sullen darkness rest

Where he hides his light at the doors of the west.

I hear the howl of the wind that brings
The long drear storm on its heavy wings;
But the howling wind and the driving rain
Will beat on my houseless head in vain:
I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare
The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air."

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

79

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

I SAW an aged man upon his bier,

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow

A record of the cares of many a year;—

Cares that were ended and forgotten now.

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,
And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.

Then rose another hoary man and said,

In faltering accents, to that weeping train, "Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,

Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast.

"Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,
In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,

And leaves the smile of his departure, spread

O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head.

"Why weep ye then for him, who, having won
The bound of man's appointed years, at last,
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed;

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet,

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?

"His youth was innocent; his riper age

Marked with some act of goodness every day;
And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage,
Faded his late declining years away.

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

"That life was happy; every day he gave

Thanks for the fair existence that was his;

For a sick fancy made him not her slave,

To mock him with her phantom miseries.

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

"And I am glad that he has lived thus long,

And glad that he has gone to his reward; Nor can I deem that nature did him wrong,

Softly to disengage the vital cord.

For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye

Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die.”

THE RIVULET.

81

THE RIVULET.

THIS little rill, that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings, Plays on the slope a while, and then Goes prattling into groves again,

Oft to its warbling waters drew

My little feet, when life was new.
When woods in early green were dressed,

And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,

List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,

And crop the violet on its brim,

With blooming cheek and open brow,

As

young and gay,

sweet rill, as thou.

And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame,

Duly I sought thy banks, and tried
My first rude numbers by thy side.
Words cannot tell how bright and gay
The scenes of life before me lay.

Then glorious hopes, that now to speak
Would bring the blood into my cheek,
Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high,
A name I deemed should never die.

Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still,

Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,

How swift the years have passed away, Since first, a child, and half afraid,

I wandered in the forest shade.

Thou ever joyous rivulet,

Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet;

And sporting with the sands that pave

The windings of thy silver wave,
And dancing to thy own wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear;

As pure thy limpid waters run,
As bright they sparkle to the sun;
As fresh and thick the bending ranks
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks;