By icy capes and southern bays,
Alps and New England hills,
By" seaside and by fireside,"

The tender sorrow thrills.

Let" Church bells heard at evening" waft Their softest, sweetest tone, "The curfew" tolls the embers out,

Of one whose" day is done."
Ring out once more, O bells of Lynn!

O'er land and water call;

"Belfry of Bruges," bid the shades
Throng to his funeral!

"Two angels," named of Life and Death,
Float o'er the graveyard dim,
Where the Moravian Nuns again
Chant their triumphant hymn.
"The children of the supper" stand,
And lisp their reverent psalms,
And "blind Bartimeus" stretches forth
Once more his piteous palms,
And Minnesingers, Vikings old,

Baron, and Spanish knight,
And cobbler bards, and haloed saints,

Gleam on my startled sight.

"Balder the beautiful," in turn,

This silent voice doth rue;
And with an added anguish there,
"Prometheus” moans anew.

King Olaf and King Robert march
As mourners side by side;

Miles Standish checks his martial step,
Walking with Vogelweid;

Manrique and Scanderbeg pass by,
Heroes of arms and faith,

And with a mystic bugle-note

Brave "Victor Galbraith's" wraith.
While all along the British coast,
From all the bristling forts
The frequent minute guns obey
"The Lord of the Cinque-Ports."

And Dante walks in stately grief,
With many a bard sublime,
"Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time."

To that "God's-acre" gentle forms
Will come at even-tide,—
"Evangeline" with drooping head,
And "Hiawatha's" bride.
And often 'neath the evening star
A crouching form will creep,
And vigil at the poet's grave

"The quadroon girl" will keep. 'Endymion," when the moon is hid, Adown the sky will slide;

The phantom form of "Paul Revere " Will through the darkness ride; "Hyperion" with clouded brow

Will wander there alone;

The Baron of St. Castine sit

And mourn as for his own.

Mount Auburn sees a pilgrim-world
Ascend her well-worn path,
And garners 'mid her precious dead
A richer "aftermath."

THE ANCIENT MINER'S STORY.

OH yes, I'm fixed as solid, sir, as most of folks you

see;

At least the coyote Poverty has ceased to sniff at me; That mine is worth a million down-that is, it is to-day: What it might cost to-morrow, though, I couldn't exactly say.

A boy in old Connecticut-this dream I used to hold: What if the cellar of our house should spring a leak with gold,

And I from there at any time a shining lump could bring?

I've got a cellar in this rock that's just that sort o'

thing.

The sum my father slaved himself for twenty years to

pay

I've taken out of that there hole in less than half a day; If I could lead him up yon path, I'd make him smile, at least ;

But his old labor-hardened hands are moldering in the East.

I'd pack my mother up this hill, and open to her view Enough to give a benefit to all the poor she knew;

I'd pan a heap o' happiness out of her dear old face; But mother's struck a lead of gold in quite a different place.

My girl? Well, maybe this is soft; but since the question's put

66

(I wouldn't tell this to any one except a tenderfoot") We used to climb those Eastern hills (she was a charm

ing witch),

And prospect on what we would do when I had "struck it rich."

But her old father hadn't the heart to let us marry

poor,

And so I shook off Yankee dust and took a Western

tour.

My trip it lasted several years. The old man grieved, no doubt.

I swore I never would come back till I could buy him

out.

You don't know what it is to hunt and dig from day to

day,

To strike a vein that almost shows, then dodges clean

away.

You do? Well, yes; but have you starved, and begged,

and almost died,

With treasures that you couldn't find heaped up on every side?

And then her letters wandered, like; then tapered to an

end;

I wondered on it for awhile, then wrote a school-boy

friend;

And just as I had struck this mine, and my old heart

beat high,

There came a letter up the gulch-it was my friend's

reply.

"She's been a-wandering in her mind: the other after

noon

She went within the asylum walls, as crazy as a loon."

A rush across the barren plains, a snailish railroad ride, And I was in the asylum too, a-kneeling at her side.

I thought she knew me, just at first; but soon she shrank away,

And never looked at me again, whatever I might say. She wanders round, or crouches in a western window

niche,

And says, "My love will come to me when he has 'struck it rich.'"

No word or look for me. Oh, but the Eastern hills were cold!

And something seemed to always say, "Go back and love your gold!"

And I came back; and in this hut my purpose is to

stay

A miser with his treasure bright already stowed away.

I'm President, Cashier, and Board of quite a wealthy

Bank,

With none except myself to please-and no one else to

thank;