Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift - bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer —
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,

They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,

They break forth in glory - bring flowers, bright flowers!

CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.

TORM on the midnight waters! The vast sky
Is

Rolls heavily in the darkness, like a shroud

Shook by some warning spirit from the high And terrible wall of heaven. The mighty wave Tosses beneath its shadow, like the bold Upheavings of a giant from the grave,

Which bound him prematurely to its cold And desolate bosom. Lo-they mingle now Tempest and heaving wave, along whose brow Trembles the lightning from its thick cloud fold.

And it is very terrible! The roar

Ascendeth unto heaven, and thunders back
Like a response of demons, from the black
Rifts of the hanging tempests - yawning o'er
The wild waves in their torment. Hark! the cry
Of the strong man in peril, piercing through
The uproar of the waters and the sky;

As the rent bark one moment rides to view,
On the tall billows, with the thunder-cloud
Closing around, above her, like a shroud!

He stood upon the reeling deck - His form
Made visible by the lightning, and His brow,
Uncovered to the visiting of the storm,

Told of a triumph man may never know

Power underived and mighty.-' Peace, be still!'

The great waves heard Him, and the storm's loud tone Went moaning into silence at His will:

And the thick clouds, where yet the lightning shone, And slept the latent thunder, rolled away Until no trace of tempest lurked behind, Changing upon the pinions of the wind To stormless wanderers, beautiful and gay.

Dread Ruler of the tempest! Thou, before

Whose presence boweth the uprisen storm-
To whom the waves do homage, round the shore
Of many an island empire!- if the form
Of the frail dust beneath thine eye may claim

Thy infinite regard-oh, breathe upon

The storm and darkness of man's soul, the same
Quiet, and peace, and humbleness, which came
O'er the roused waters, where Thy voice had gone,
A minister of power-to conquer in Thy name!

THE

THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.

HE ship's bell tolled! and slowly o'er the deck
Came forth the summoned crew. Bold, hardy men,

Far from their native skies, stood silent there

With melancholy brow. From a low cloud

That o'er the horizon hover'd, came the threat

Of distant muttered thunder. Broken waves

Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay

Like some vindictive king, who meditates

On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war.

The ship's bell tolled! and, lo! a youthful form
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds
At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid
Down at his comrades' feet. Mournful they gazed
Upon his sunken cheek, and some there were
Who in that bitter hour remembered well

The parting blessing of his hoary sire,

And the big tears that o'er his mother's cheek
Went coursing down, when his beloved voice
Breathed its farewell. But one who nearest stood
To that pale, shrouded corse, remembered more;
Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn,
And blossomed hedge, and of a fair-haired girl
Who, at her lattice veiled with woodbine, watched
His last, far step, and then turned back to weep.
And close that comrade in his faithful breast
Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth
Had severed with a cold and trembling hand
In life's extremity, and bade him bear,
With broken words of love's last eloquence,
To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend
Bowed low his sun-bronzed face, and, like a child,
Sobbed in deep sorrow.

But there came a tone, Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas, 'I am the resurrection. Every heart Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised. There stood the chaplain his uncovered brow Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice, Rich as the balm from plants of Paradise, Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls Of dying men. It was a holy hour! There lay the wreck of youthful beauty-here Bent mourning manhood, while supporting Faith Cast her strong anchor 'neath the troubled wave.

There was a plunge! The riven sea complained! Death from his briny bosom took her own. The awful fountains of the deep did lift Their subterranean portals, and he went Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul, In all the funeral pomp, the guise of woe, The monumental grandeur, with which earth Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad, Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

"I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history. The world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever."-WEBSTER'S Speech.

2

EW England's dead! New England's dead!

NEW

On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle poured

Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the Northern hill,
And on the Southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land!

Oh, few and weak their numbers were

A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,

And rushed to battle then.

The God of battles heard their cry,

And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,

The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,

And mustered, in their simple dress,

For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?

I call: the hills reply again

That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

(OMEWHAT back from the village street

SOMET

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,

"Forever-never!

Never forever!"

Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"