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
Till dead can ne'er forget.

Beyond the blue seas, far away,
Most wretchedly alone,
One died in prison, far away,

Where stone on stone shut out the day,
And never hope or comfort's ray
In his lone dungeon shone,

Dead to the world, alive to me,

Though months and years have pass'd;

In a lone hour, his sigh to me
Comes like the hum of some wild bee,

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;

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THE LAST READER.

Engrave oblivion on the tomb

Of pulseless life and deadly bloom,—
Dim is such glare: but bright the gloom
Around the funeral pile.

THE LAST READER.

BY OLIVER W. HOLMES.

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,
And read my own sweet songs;
Though nought they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have pass'd away,
But for that scarce-remember'd lay.

I keep them like a lock or leaf,
That some dear girl has given ;
Frail record of an hour, as brief
As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadow'd hill.

They lie upon my pathway bleak,
Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek
The ringlets of his child.
The golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.

What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread

Oblivion's insect weaves

THE LAST READER.

Though weeds are tangled on the stream,
It still reflects my morning's beam.

And therefore love I such as smile
On these neglected songs,

Nor deem that flattery's needless wile
My opening bosom wrongs;
For who would trample, at my side,
A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

It may be that my scanty ore

Long years have wash'd away,
And where were golden sands before,
Is nought but common clay;
Still something sparkles in the sun,
For Memory to look back upon.

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!

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THE BUCKET.

BY S. WOODWORTH.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd 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,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing,
How quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell,
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips;
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

MORN AT SEA.

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in his well.

MORN AT SEA.

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

CLEARLY, with mental eye,

Where the first slanted ray of sunlight springs,
I see the morn with golden-fringed wings
Up-pointed to the sky.

In youth's divinest glow,

She stands upon a wandering cloud of dew,
Whose skirts are sun-illumed with every

Worn by God's covenant bow!

The child of light and air!

hue

O'er land or wave, where'er her pinions move,
The shapes of earth are clothed in hues of love
And truth, divinely fair.

Athwart this wide abyss,

On homeward way impatiently I drift;

O, might she bear me now where sweet flowers lift
Their eyelids to her kiss!

Her smile hath overspread

The heaven-reflecting sea, that evermore
Is tolling solemn knells from shore to shore
For its uncoffin'd dead,

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