The Image of the Dead.

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True indeed it is

That they whom death hath hidden from our sight
Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with them
The future cannot contradict the past.
Mortality's last exercise and proof

Is undergone.-WORDSWORTH.

I CALL thee bless'd! though now the voice be fled Which to thy soul brought day-spring with its

tone,

And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, Eyes that ne'er look'd on thine but light was thrown

Far through thy breast;

And though the music of thy life be broken,
Or changed in every chord since he is gone-
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token,
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone,
I call thee bless'd!

THE IMAGE OF THE DEAD.

For in thy heart there is a holy spot,

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As mid the waste an isle of fount and palm, Forever gone! the world's breath enters not, The passion tempests may not break its calm: 'Tis thine, all thine!

Thither, in trust unbaffled, mayst thou turn From weary words, cold greetings, heartless

eyes,

Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn That, fill'd with waters of sweet mem'ry, lies In its own shrine.

Thou hast thy home! there is no power in change
To reach that temple of the past-no sway
In all Time brings, of sudden, dark, or strange,
To sweep the still, transparent peace away
From its hush'd air.

And O! that glorious image of the dead!
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest,
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed
Its high gifts fearlessly!-I call thee bless'd,
If only there!

Bless'd; for the beautiful within thee dwelling,
Never to fade!-a refuge from distrust,
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling,
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust
With flowers divine,

And thou hast been beloved!-it is no dream,
No false mirage for thee-the fervent love,
The rainbow still unreach'd, the ideal gleam,
That ever seems before, beyond, above,
Far off to shine.

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth Singled and mark'd, hast known its home and

place;

And the high memory of its holy worth
To this our life a glory and a grace
For thee hath given.

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved?
Thou art!—the love his spirit bore away
Was not for earth!-a treasure but removed,
A bright bird parted for a clearer day-
Thine still in heaven!

COTTAGE CHILDREN.

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Cottage Children.

WRITTEN AMONG THE HILLS OF YARROW.

HEAVEN bless ye! ye dear little sons of the hut!
Why startle and run from your play, boys?
Do the sound and the sight of strangers affright?
Then surely but few pass this way, boys:
Yet sweet is your cottage that stands all alone,
And smooth is the sward of your vale, boys;
And dear is each crook of the whisp'ring brook
That bids it each moment farewell, boys.

And high are the hills that enclose you
around,

Where your flocks ever peacefully feed,

boys;

And blue is the sky that attracts your

young eye

As it rests on your green mountain's head,

boys.

Here meek Meditation might love to reside,
To silence and solitude given;

And calm as they glide might the hours divide Between her mild home and the Heaven!

Ah, children, but small is this valley of yours,

It is all the world that you know, boys! Yet behind that high mound lies a world without bound,

But alas! 't is a world full of woe, boys.

From the height of yon hill, looking onward afar,

The valley may charm by its smile, boys; But approach it more near, and 't will rugged

appear,

And beset is each scene with a toil, boys.

Then quit not your cottage, ye sons of the wild,

And still of your mountain be fond,

boys;

For what do you lose but a myriad of

woes

By knowing not what is beyond, boys?

And sleep with your fathers! how soothing the

thought!

When the sun-tide of life is gone by, boys,