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She knew she should find them all again

In the fields of light above. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day; 'T was an angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.


The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist !
A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time: For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.


There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair !
The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted !
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;

Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of our affection, -

But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she doing

In those bright realms of air ;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,


Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her ;

For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child ;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

That cannot be at rest, -
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.


I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where ;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song ?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke ;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.



God sent his Singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.
The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre ;
Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.
The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,

And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd. A gray old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold. And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might be; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart. But the great Master said, “I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. “These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony."


I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me,

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O how often,

In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight

And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom

O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,

And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes ;
The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.


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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown

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