THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE.

On the pale marble, by some gifted hand,
Fix'd in undying lines!

Thou, with the sculptured bowl,

185

And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath,
And thou, from whose young lip and flute, the soul
Of music seems to breathe ;

And ye, luxuriant flowers!

Linking the dancers with your graceful ties,
And cluster'd fruitage, born of sunny hours,
Under Italian skies:

Ye, that a thousand springs, And leafy summers with their odorous breath, May yet outlast,—what do ye there, bright things! Mantling the place of death?

Of sunlight and soft air,
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green,
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear;-
Why thus, where dust hath been?

Is it to show how slight

The bound that severs festivals and tombs,
Music and silence, roses and the blight,
Crowns and sepulchral glooms?

Or when the father laid

Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep,
When the friend visited the cypress shade,
Flowers o'er the dead to heap;

Say if the mourners sought,

In these rich images of summer mirth,

These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought Of our last hour on earth?

Ye have no voice, no sound,

Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek;
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown'd,
Yet to my soul ye speak.

Alas! for those that lay

Down in the dust without their hope of old! Backward they look'd on life's rich banquet-day, But all beyond was cold.

Every sweet wood-note then,

And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow, And each glad murmur from the homes of men, Made it more hard to go.

But we, when life grows dim,

When its last melodies float o'er our way,
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim,
Its flitting lights decay;-

E'en though we bid farewell

Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees,
Yet may we lift our hearts, in hope to dwell
'Midst brighter things than these.

And think of deathless flowers,

And of bright streams to glorious valleys given,
And know the while, how little dream of ours
Can shadow forth of Heaven.

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE.

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EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.'

COME to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,

And the summer dew to flowers,

And rest to us, is given

By the cool soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie;

When the burden and the heat
Of labour's task are o'er,

And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;

The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

"The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the sunset tree." See Captain Sherer's interesting Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.

Yes; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round!

And the gale that fans our brows.

But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.

From the hills our fathers trode,

To the quiet of the skies,

To the Sabbath of our God.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone,
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

1 "Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen

Wo kein schnee mehr ist."

SCHILLER'S Nadowessiche Todtenklage.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

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THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

FORGET them not:-though now their name
Be but a mournful sound,

Though by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.

Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,

And shadows, never mark'd before,
Brood o'er each tree;

And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!

Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there,
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad-yet it sanctifies the air,

The stream-the ground.

Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone,
A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not!-no fruitless grief

Thus in their presence felt,

A record links to every leaf

There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden-bower,