THE LAST LOOK.

W. W. SWAIN.

BEHOLD

not him we knew!

This was the prison which his soul looked through, Tender, and brave, and true.

His voice no more is heard;

And his dead name - that dear familiar word

Lies on our lips unstirred.

He spake with poet's tongue;

Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung:
He shall not die unsung!

Grief tried his love, and pain;

And the long bondage of his martyr-chain

Vexed his sweet soul, — in vain!

It felt life's surges break,

As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake,
Smiling while tempests wake.

How can we sorrow more?

Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before

To that untrodden shore!

Lo, through its leafy screen,

A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green,

Untrodden, half unseen!

Here let his body rest,

Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best

May slide above his breast.

Smooth his uncurtained bed;

And if some natural tears are softly shed,

It is not for the dead.

Fold the green turf aright

For the long hours before the morning's light,

And say the last Good Night!

And plant a clear white stone

Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own,

Lonely, but not alone.

Here let him sleeping lie,

Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky,

And Death himself shall die!

NAUSHON, September 22, 1858.

IN MEMORY OF

CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JUNIOR.

HE was all sunshine; in his face
The very soul of sweetness shone ;
Fairest and gentlest of his race;

None like him we can call our own.

Something there was of one that died
In her fresh spring-time long ago,

Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed,

Whose smile it was a bliss to know.

Something of her whose love imparts
Such radiance to her day's decline,

We feel its twilight in our hearts

Bright as the earliest morning-shine.

Yet richer strains our eye could trace
That made our plainer mould more fair,
That curved the lip with happier grace,
That waved the soft and silken hair.

Dust unto dust! the lips are still

That only spoke to cheer and bless ; The folded hands lie white and chill Unclasped from sorrow's last caress.

Leave him in peace; he will not heed
These idle tears we vainly pour,
Give back to earth the fading weed
Of mortal shape his spirit wore.

"Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn,
My flower of love that falls half blown,
My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn,
A thorny path to walk alone?"

O Mary! one who bore thy name,

Whose Friend and Master was divine,

Sat waiting silent till He came,

Bowed down in speechless grief like thine.