And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,—
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
By those, who, in their turn, shall follow them.
So live, that, when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
SOLITUDE.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.
Deep solitude I sought. There was a dell Where woven shade shut out the eye of day, While, towering near, the rugged mountains made Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went, And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught, For which it long had languished 'mid the strife And fever of the world. I thought to be There without witness. But the violet's eye Looked up upon me,-the fresh wild-rose smiled, And the young pendant vine-flower kissed my cheek. And there were voices too. The garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told
Its history;-up came the singing breeze,
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake
Responsive, every one. Even busy life
Woke in that dell. The tireless spider threw
From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare.
The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,
And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird
Sang to her nurslings.
Yet I strangely thought
To be alone, and silent in thy realm,
Spirit of life and love! It might not be
There is no solitude in thy domains,
Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast,
He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.
Thou hast not left thyself to nature's round
Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams,
Are social and benevolent; and he
Who oft communeth in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.
And hoary with the dust of years, an old
And worthy man came to his humble roof,
Tottering and slow, and on the threshold stood.
No foot, no voice, was heard within. None came
To meet him, where he oft had met a wife,
And sons, and daughters, glad at his return;
None came to meet him; for that day had seen
The old man lay, within the narrow house,
The last of all his family; and now
He stood in solitude, in solitude
Wide as the world; for all, that made to him
Society, had fled beyond its bounds.
Wherever strayed his aimless eye, there lay
The wreck of some fond hope, that touched his soul
With bitter thoughts, and told him all was passed.
His lonely cot was silent, and he looked
As if he could not enter. On his staff,
Bending, he leaned; and from his weary eye,
Distressing sight! a single tear-drop wept.
None followed, for the fount of tears was dry.
Alone and last, it fell from wrinkle down
To wrinkle, till it lost itself, drunk by
The withered cheek, on which again no smile
Should come, or drop of tenderness be seen.
This sight was very pitiful; but one
Was sadder still, the saddest seen in time.
A man to-day, the glory of his kind,
In reason clear, in understanding large,
In judgment sound, in fancy quick, in hope
Abundant, and in promise, like a field
Well cultured, and refreshed with dews from God;
To-morrow, chained, and raving mad, and whipped
By servile hands; sitting on dismal straw,
And gnashing with his teeth against the chain,
The iron chain, that bound him hand and foot;
And trying whiles to send his glaring eye
Beyond the wide circumference of his wo;
Or, humbling more, more miserable still,
Giving an idiot laugh that served to show
The blasted scenery of his horrid face;
Calling the straw his sceptre, and the stone,
On which he, pinioned, sat, his royal throne.
Poor, poor, poor man! fallen far below the brute!
His reason strove in vain to find her way,
Lost in the stormy desert of his brain;
And, being active still, she wrought all strange,
Fantastic, execrable, monstrous things.
A PASTORAL BALLAD.-SHENSTONE.
Arbusta humilisque myricæ.-Virg.
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I;
I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel ; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :
I have bid my dear Phyllis farewell.
Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine:
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
I prized every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I prized them no more.
But why do I languish in vain ;
Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of my
They tell me, my favorite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have strayed,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so—
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gazed, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely removed from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relic I bear,
My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow: My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beach's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-briar entwines it around.
Not
my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have labored to rear;
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