THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. Ye have no voice, no sound, 169 Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek; Alas! for those that lay Down in the dust without their hope of old! 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, E'en though we bid farewell Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees, And think of deathless flowers, And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.* COME to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; And the reaper's work is done. The twilight star to heaven, And the summer dew to flowers, By the cool soft evening hours. Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, When the burden and the heat 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. Yes; tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering boughs; Let us come * "The loved hour of repose is striking. to the sunset tree." See Captain Sherer's interesting Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 171 Welcome the freshness round! And the gale that fans our brows. But rest more sweet and still There shall no tempest blow, So we lift our trusting eyes 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 MEMORY OF THE DEAD. FORGET them not :-though now their name Be but a mournful sound, * "Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen SCHILLER'S Nadowessiche Todtenklage. Though by the hearth its utterance claim Though for their sake this earth no more And shadows, never mark'd before, And though their image dim the sky, Nor, where their love and life went by, They have a breathing influence there, The stream-the ground. Then, though the wind an alter'd tone Oh! fly it not!-no fruitless grief A record links to every leaf There, where they dwelt. Still trace the path which knew their tread, Still tend their garden-bower. Still commune with the holy dead In each lone hour! HE WALKED WITH GOD. The holy dead!-oh! bless'd we are, That we may call them so, And to their image look afar, Through all our woe! Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth, That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth, Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power If but to bird, or song, or flower, Yet all for Heaven! 173 HE WALK'D WITH GOD.* (Genesis v. 24.) HE walk'd with God, in holy joy, The ancient hills he trode, "These two little pieces," (He walked with God,' and The Rod of Aaron,') says the author in one of her letters, "are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on Scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones of the New." The two following are subjoined, as having been (probably) intended to form a part of the same series. |