No! not for thee is woven
That wreath of joy and wo,
That crown of thorns and flowers,
Which all must wear below!
We bend in anguish o'er thee,
Yet feel that thou art blessed,
Loved one, so early summoned
To enter into rest.
Soon shall thy bright young spirit
From earth's cold chains be free;
Soon shalt thou meet that Savior,
Who gave himself for thee.
Soon shalt thou be rejoicing,
Unsullied as thou art,
In the blessed vision promised
Unto the pure in heart.
Yes, thou art going home,
Our Father's face to see,
In perfect bliss and glory;
But we, 0, where are we?
While that celestial country
Thick clouds and darkness hide,
In a strange land of exile,
Still, still must we abide.
The dying Raven.-RICHARD H. DANA.
COME to these lonely woods to die alone? It seems not many days since thou wast heard, From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note, Calling unto thy mates and their clear answers The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us;-offspring bright
Of earth, a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it-vanity well feigned--
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces.-Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms.-There, on tall, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
And, grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odors to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-
Brings beauty, life;-for love is life;-hate, death.
Thou prophet of so fair a revelation,Thou who abod'st with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,
From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow,—
Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam'st forth
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,
To speak of comfort unto lonely man,-
Didst say to him, though seemingly alone
'Midst wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground,- that 'twas not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair;-
That thou, albeit unseen, did'st bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.
Thou priest of nature, priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of faith, (than instinct no less sure,)
Of spirits near him, though he saw them not :
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,
And see his solitude all populous:
Thou showd'st him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And didst him pray to listen to the flow
Preacher to man's spirit!
Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!
Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'Twas thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong,
On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!
Thy kingly strength brought down, of storms
Thou conqueror!
The year's mild, cheering dawn
Upon thee shone a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest amongst thy hopes and promises-
Beautiful flowers, and freshly-springing blades-
Gasping thy life out.-Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds--
To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. No answer give they back.
As I look up to their bright, angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice
They seem to me.
Comes ominous.
Their silence to my soul The same to thee, doomed bird, Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound, No silence.-Near thee stands the shadow, Death;And now he slowly draws his sable veil
Over thine eyes. Thy senses soft he lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call
Thou'lt hear no longer. 'Neath sun-lighted clouds, With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,
Thou'lt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws
Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death
Are on thee.
Laid thus low by age? Or is't
All-grudging man has brought thee to this end?
Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound
Around the grain God gives thee for thy food,
Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain.
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, which will now no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes,
Like armor of steeled 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,
The universal spirit.-Hear it cry,
"How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!
How deaden thee to universal love,
And joy of kindred, with all humble things-
-God's creatures all !"
He who the lily clothes in simple glory,
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,
In signs mysterious, written what alone
Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird.
THE day had been a day of wind and storm ;—
The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed,
And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm,
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast,
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green,
With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between.
The rain-drops glistened on the trees around,
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred,
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;
For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung
And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;
To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung,
And, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.
And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry,
Flew many a glittering insect here and there,
And darted up and down the butterfly,
That seemed a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them; in the way
Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair;
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay,
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play.
It was a scene of peace-and, like a spell,
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the cell,
And precipice upspringing like a wall,
And glassy river, and white waterfall,
And happy living things that trod the bright
And beauteous scene; while, far beyond them all,
On many a lovely valley, out of sight,
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft, golden ligh!
I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,
When o'er earth's continents, and isles between,
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;
When millions, crouching in the dust to one,
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,
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