The shining leaves

From linden stems come forth in tenderest green;

And where May's gathered blossoms should have been, By woodland eaves,

Now romping children roll in varnished king cups

The ambient light

Bids forth the insect race of gauzy wing;

The blackbird whistles and the linnets sing;
But hawthorns white,

sheen.

From shrivelled buds, alas! no long pent odours fling!
Red roses bloom;

Day follows day, the golden sand runs fast,
Summer's rich glory o'er the earth is cast;
Joy scatters gloom,

And sister months glide on oblivious of the past.

So drift away

Fair souls of maidens on dark waves of time,
Bereft of hoped for love, and promised prime;
Like our lost May!

Upon whose tomb we lay this wreath of sorrowing rhyme.

Pallida Mors.

Sadly three maidens were sighing,
By the couch where a father lay dying,
Anxiously watching each breath;

Fainter and fainter the gleaming

Of light in those eyes that seem dreaming
In the filmy visions of death.

Piteously maidens are weeping

By that couch where a father lies sleeping,
The sleep that dispelleth all pain:

Holy and calm is his face,

Serenely has death taken place;

O daughters! from grieving refrain!

For the anguish and sorrow and dread,
Surrounding that tear bedewed bed,

Are hallowed by thoughts that dwell
Long, long in the minds of those
Who now look on his calm repose,

And who loved him in life so well.

Peace sits on the warrior's brow,
Anxiety leaveth him now

He sleepeth the sleep of the brave;
Nobly his duties were done;
From the torrid zone's bronzing Sun

He hath come to an English grave.

He defied the keen sabre's red stroke,
He emerged from the cannon's thick smoke,

He was spared from the bullet and shell;
Though wounded and down with the slain,
He rode foremost in battles again

Where his comrades by squadrons fell.

They have borne him away to the tomb,
Not under the cypress' gloom

With its shade like the dark black night;

But with peaceful seclusion around

Where the waving flowers abound

Where the sunshine falls warmly and bright.

Few escape from such fierce battle strife!
How few lead a nobler life!

For whom rings Fame's clarion so loudly?

For the officer brave and bold

Whose aim is bright honor, not gold;

Think of him, gratefully, proudly!

TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.

Weep not, although her form is laid
Within that dreary tomb,
Which thy lorn spirit yearneth to
In nights of sleepless gloom;
A day of rest for those loved best,
May come, alas! too soon,

Yet if long suffering they are spared
God's
mercy grants a boon.

The roses torn from garden bowers
A life of sweetness lose,

But richer than the growing flowers,
The fragrance they diffuse.

So parts the soul that only breathed
In piety and peace;

Shedding a holier influence when
Its earthly duties cease.

Fond memory clasps a portrait rare
Where undimmed virtues blend,
As truth's undying pencil paints
The mother, wife, and friend;
And to the mourners thus bereft

Bids consolation say―

"The hand that such a treasure lent
Now takes its own away."

EPITAPH IN THE CHURCHYARD AT WORTH, SUSSEX.

ON JOHN ALCORN, CLERK AND SEXTON.

Obiit 1868. Anno Etatis 81.

"Time honored friend!-for fifty-three full years He saw each bridal's joy, each burial's tears. Within the walls by Saxons reared of old,

By the stone-sculptured font of antique mould,
Under the massive arches, in the glow

Tinged by dyed sun-beams, passing to and fro;
A sentient portion of the sacred place,
A worthy presence with a well-worn face.

The lych gate's shadow o'er his pall at last
Whispers adieu as poor old John goes past.
Unseen the path, the trees, the old oak door,
No more his footfalls touch the tomb-paved floor;
His silvery head is hid, his service done;
Of all those Sabbaths, absent only one.

And now, amid the graves he delved around,
He rests and sleeps beneath the hallowed ground.

CURIOUS OLD LATIN EPITAPH,

ON

NICHOLAS WHISTON, RECTOR OF WORTH, Obiit 1638.

Hic dolor hic infra Worthae decus accubat ingens
En: magis hoc tumulo Wortha Sepulta cubat

Nam quae vicinis modo claruit unica villis
Obruta pastoris funere Wortha jacet
Wortha jacet simili vix surrectura ministro
Vix iterum simili restituenda viro

Namque sub hoc uno tanta est conclusa sepulchro
Quanta solet virtus vivere quanta mori.

TRANSLATION.

Here grief supreme, here Worth's vast honor sleeps. Or rather Worth herself sepultured weeps!

She, who of late outshone each hamlet near, O'erwhelmed by her dear pastor's death moan's here,

E

How faint the hope again to rise and find
A priest so true, a man so good and kind;
In this one tomb enclosed so much of virtue lies.
As much as ever lives as much as ever dies.

Birge.

Open the hall-door wide,
The lord of the castle is dead,

Time honored he lived and died;
Full fourscore years have sped,
Since first his infant craving cries
Gladdened a parent's breast,
Since he opened and closed his eyes
Hushed on a mother's breast.
Eighty winters have shed

Their snow on the mountain tops,
Eighty summers have spread
Their sunshine over the crops,

Over the hill side crops,
Over the crops of the plains,
Surrounding the wide domains,
Where he peacefully lived and died.

Open once more the door,
He goeth his guests before
To track an unseen road,
To cross, ah! never more,
The threshold of that abode !

The door is opened wide,
And the menials crowd the stair,
And solemnly side by side