TO THE DEAD.. BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. How many now are dead to me That live to others yet! How many are alive to me Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look, which we Beyond the blue seas, far away, Where stone on stone shut out the day, Dead to the world, alive to me, Though months and years have pass'd; In a lone hour, his sigh to me And then his form and face I see, As then I saw him last. And one with a bright lip, and cheek, And eye, is dead to me. How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek! His lip was cold-it would not speak : His heart was dead, for it did not break: And his eye, for it did not see. Then for the living be the tomb, And for the dead the smile; 238 THE LAST READER. Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloom,— THE LAST READER. BY OLIVER W. HOLMES. I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree, A tone that might have pass'd away, I keep them like a lock or leaf, They lie upon my pathway bleak, What care I though the dust is spread Or o'er them his sarcastic thread Oblivion's insect weaves THE LAST READER. Though weeds are tangled on the stream, And therefore love I such as smile Nor deem that flattery's needless wile It may be that my scanty ore Long years have wash'd away, And when my name no more is heard, My lyre no more is known, Still let me, like a winter's bird, In silence and alone, Fold over them the weary wing, Once flashing through the dews of spring. Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap My youth in its decline, And riot in the rosy lap Of thoughts that once were mine, And give the worm my little store, When the last reader reads no more! 239 THE BUCKET. BY S. WOODWORTH. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure, For often at noon, when return'd from the field, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, MORN AT SEA. As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. MORN AT SEA. BY JAMES ALDRICH. CLEARLY, with mental eye, Where the first slanted ray of sunlight springs, In youth's divinest glow, She stands upon a wandering cloud of dew, Worn by God's covenant bow! The child of light and air! hue O'er land or wave, where'er her pinions move, Athwart this wide abyss, On homeward way impatiently I drift; O, might she bear me now where sweet flowers lift Her smile hath overspread The heaven-reflecting sea, that evermore 241 |