By all the embosom'd woods-a silvery green,
Made up of Spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
And lo! where floating through a glory, sings
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!

While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.
But purer light than of the early sun
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth,
By this glad morning's birth!

And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Then music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head.
Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye,
O'er nature's face the coloring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,

Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes.

Lay hush'd in dark repose,

Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills!
And let a full victorious tone be given,

By rock and cavern, to the

ind which fills

Your urn-like depths with sc ind! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven

Unfolded-and the stern, dark shadow cast

By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past. And you ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,

Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead,

Time with a soft and reconciling hand

The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread

O'er every narrow bed:

But not by time, and not by nature sown

Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.

Christ hath arisen! oh! not one cherish'd head

Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear

From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love!

E'n on this greensward; night hath heard thy cry,
Heart stricken one! thy precious dust above,
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!

A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.

But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,

Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
Dark must have been the gushing of those tears,
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality's thick gloom

Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Fear,
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To veil that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought,
And, where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.
But that dark night is closed: and o'er the dead,
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch hath spread,
And, settling oft on some grey letter'd stone,

The redbreast warbles lone;

And the wild-bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep,
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye,
For hope sits, dovelike, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these vallies lie
Seem all one sanctuary

Of holiest thought-nor needs their fresh bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
Christ hath arisen!-O mountain peak! attest,
Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave,
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory-tell how oft the brave
To camp 'midst rock and cave,

Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne.
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day-
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone,

Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! the pure high snows have known
A coloring not their own,

But from true hearts which by that crimson stain
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.

Those days are past-the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendor of the martyr's blood,
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E'en though the faithful stood,

465

A noble army, in the exulting sight

Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right' But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken

Is yet borne silently in homes obscure;

And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;

And, for the strength whereby the just and pure

Thus steadfastly endure,

Glory to Him whose victory won that dower,

Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power.
Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast!
Light to the nations! He hath roll'd away
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay-
His love hath made it day

With those that sat in darkness.-Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveller between life and death."-- Wordsworth

I SAW him at his sport erewhile,

The bright exulting boy,

Like Summer's lightning came the smile

Of his young spirit's joy;

A flash that wheresoe'r it broke,

- To life undreamt-of beauty woke.

His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain's side,
Where jewel-color'd pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide!

And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.

He twined him wreaths of all Spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet's dew;

He flung them o'er the wave in showers,

Till, gazing, scarce I knew

Which seem'd more pure, or bright or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.

To look on all that joy and bloom
Made earth one festal scene,

Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem'd as it ne'er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steel o'er the dawn of such clear day?
I saw once more that aspect bright-
The boy's meek head was bow'd

THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

In silence o'er the Book of Light,

And, like a golden cloud-
The still cloud of a pictured sky-
His locks droop'd round it lovingly.

And if my heart had deem'd him fair,
When in the fountain glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play'd
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being's brow!

The being born to toil, to die,

To break forth from the tomb,
Unto far nobler destiny

Than waits the skylark's plume!
I saw him in that thoughtful hour,
Win the first knowledge of his dower.
The soul, the awakening soul I saw,
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe,
Sweeping o'er that fair face :

As o'er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel's pinion made!
The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,

Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight:
Lovely, but solemn it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.

The red-leaved tablets,* undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought-

Oh! little dream'd the brooding child,

Of what within me wrought,

While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd,

And quiver'd to the eternal word.

And reverently my spirit caught
The reverence of his gaze;

A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;

To make the proud heart meekly wise,

By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.

It seem'd as if a temple rose
Before me brightly there,
And in the depths of its repose

My soul o'erflow'd with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nigh-
The power of infant sanctity!

467

"All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the red 'eavec tablets of my heart."-Haywood.

O Father! mould my heart once more,
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E'en with that pure one's faith;
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

"Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine

In such a temple as we now behold,

Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound To worship here and every where."-Wordsworth. THE blue, deep, glorious heavens!-I lift mine eye And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And own'd thine image in the majesty

Of their calm temple still!-that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
I bless thee O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
Í bless thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid,
In the earth's garden-'midst the mountains old

And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,

And the wild sound of waters uncontrolla
And upon many a desert plain and shore-
No solitude-for there I felt thee more:
I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed
The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man's heart-if I have kept it free

And pure-a consecration unto thee:

1 bless thee, O my God!

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught With an awakening power-if thou hast made Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought, And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd

To lands of other lays, and there become

Native as early melodies of home:

bless thee, O my God!