THE DYING RAVEN. I needs must mourn for thee. For I-who have No fields, nor gather into garners-I Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate. And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long, Will give thee decent covering. Till then, Thine own black plumage, that will now no more Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes, Like armour of steel'd knight of Palestine, Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade In living man. Who scoffs these sympathies, Makes mock of the divinity within ; Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul, "How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man! And joy of kindred with all humble things- And surely it is so. He who the lily clothes in simple glory, He who doth hear the ravens cry for food, In signs mysterious, written what alone 145 Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird. 13 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. THE melancholy days are come, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, And from the shrubs the jay, Through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, In brighter light and softer airs, The gentle race of flowers With the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, The lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, They perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died, Amid the summer glow; THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. But on the hill the golden-rod, And the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook In autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, And the brightness of their smile was gone, From upland glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, To call the squirrel and the bee When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, And twinkle in the smoky light The waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers Whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood And by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in The fair, meek blossom that grew up In the cold, moist earth we laid her, Like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers, 147 "PASS ON, RELENTLESS WORLD." BY GEORGE LUNT. SWIFTER and swifter, day by day, And prayers and tears alike have been Thou passest on, and with thee go The loves of youth, the cares of age; Writes hopes that end in mockery; Thou passest on, and at thy side, "PASS ON, RELENTLESS WORLD." Thou passest on, with thee the vain, Who sport upon thy flaunting blaze, Pride, framed of dust and folly's train, Who court thy love, and run thy ways: But thou and I,-and be it so, Press onward to eternity; Yet not together let us go To that deep-voiced but shoreless sea. Thou hast thy friends,-I would have mine; I bow not at thy slavish throne; Pass on, relentless world! I grieve No more for all that thou hast riven; Pass on, in God's name, only leave The things thou never yet hast given— A heart at ease, a mind at home, Affections fix'd above thy sway, Faith set upon a world to come, 13* 149 |