And the New Year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The may upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day! Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen o' May; And we danced about the May-pole, and in the hazle copse, Till Charles's-wain * chimney-tops. came out, above the tall, white There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane; I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again; I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high, I long to see a flower so, before the day I die. The building rook 'll caw from the windy, tall elm tree And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'll come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement and upon that grave o' mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun 'll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep mother, and all the world is still. * A constellation in the heavens. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waving light Ye 'll never see me more in the long, gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bulrush in the pool. Ye 'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthornshade, And ye 'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid; I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head, in the long and pleas ant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but ye 'll forgive me now; Ye 'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and Nay, brow; nay, ye must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, Ye shall not fret for me, mother, ye have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting place; Though ye 'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what ye say, And be often and often with you, when ye think I'mfar away. Good night, good night, when I have said good night for evermore, And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green; She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been. She 'll find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor; Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden more; But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose bush that I set About the parlour-window, and the box of mignonette. Good night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn, All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.- Wordsworth. SHE was a phantom of delight To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet And now I see, with eye serene, THE LOST PLEIAD.—Mrs. Hemans. AND is there glory from the heavens departed? O void unmarked! thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high, Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? No desert seems to part those urns of light, They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning, To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning, Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? A world sinks thus, and yon majestic heaven CORONACH.*- Sir W. Scott. He is gone on the mountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper * Funeral song. |