THE DEPARTED.

"Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world - with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise-the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre."

AND shrink ye from the way

To the spirit's distant shore?

BRYANT.

Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array,

Are thither gone before.

The warrior kings, whose banner

Flew far as eagles fly,

They are gone where swords avail them not,

From the feast of victory.

And the seers who sat of yore

By orient palm or wave,

They have pass'd with all their starry lore-
Can ye still fear the grave?

We fear! we fear! the sunshine

Is joyous to behold,

And we reck not of the buried kings,

Nor the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink!-the bards whose lays

Have made your deep hearts burnThey have left the sun, and the voice of praise, For the land whence noné return.

And the beautiful, whose record

Is the verse that cannot die,

They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng
Of the earth's departed flowers,
And the masters of the mighty song
In their far and fadeless bowers?

Those songs are high and holy,

But they vanquish not our fear;
Not from our path those flowers are gone-
We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile,

As the last leaves on the bough!

Ye have loved the light of many a smile
That is taken from you now.

There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks, that now are still;

There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.

Soft eyes are seen no more,

That made Spring-time in your heart; Kindred and friends are gone before—

And ye still fear to part?

We fear not now, we fear not!

Though the way through darkness bends;

Our souls are strong to follow them,

Our own familiar friends!

THE PALM-TREE.'

Ir waved not through an eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fann'd by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas;
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange look'd it there! -the willow stream'd
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd;
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee

To murmur by the desert's tree,
And showers of snowy roses made
A lustre in its fan-like shade.

There came an eve of festal hours-
Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers:
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung
On sparks of dew soft colour flung,
And bright forms glanced—a fairy show
Under the blossoms to and fro.

1 This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Les Jardins.

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,
Seem'd reckless all of dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow and long black hair—
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:
He pass'd the pale green olives by,
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye;
But when to that sole palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame!

To him, to him its rustling spoke,
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whisper'd of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile ;
Ay, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea wave's moan!

His mother's cabin home, that lay
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay;
The dashing of his brethren's oar-
The conch-note heard along the shore;
All through his wakening bosom swept-
He clasp'd his country's tree and wept!
Oh, scorn him not!-the strength whereby
The patriot girds himself to die,
Th' unconquerable power which fills
The freeman battling on his hills-

These have one fountain deep and clear—

The same whence gush'd that childlike tear!

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S.

THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?

When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn?

When the first rich breath of the rose is born?—
Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies

Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes;
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes-not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark-
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press'd
Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou 'rt gone from us, bright one! that thou shouldst die,

And life be left to the butterfly!1

Thou'rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough:

Oh! for the world where thy home is now!

How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here;
How should e'en joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

1A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the

monument.