Imágenes de páginas

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,
Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened


Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,

His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,

Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, And leaves the smile of his departure, spread O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain


Why weep ye then for him, who, having run

The bound of man's appointed years, at last, Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done,

Serenely to his final rest has past; While the soft memory of his virtues, yet Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set.

His youth was innocent; his riper age,

Marked with some act of goodness, every day; And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage,

Faded his late declining years away. Cheerful he gave his being up, and went To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent..

That life was happy ; every day he gave

Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; For a sick fancy made him not her slave,

To mock him with her phantom miseries.

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

And I am glad, that he has lived thus long,

And glad, that he has gone to his reward ; Nor deem, that kindly nature did him wrong,

Softly to disengage the vital cord. When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die.


By yon still river, where the wave

Is winding slow at evening's close, The beech, upon a nameless grave,

Its sadly-moving shadow throws.

O'er the fair woods the sun looks down

Upon the many twinkling leaves,
And twilight's mellow shades are brown,

Where darkly the green turf upheaves.

The river glides in silence there,

And hardly waves the sapling tree : Sweet flowers are springing, and the air

Is full of balm,—but where is she !

They bade her wed a son of pride,

And leave the hopes she cherished long :

She loved but one,—and would not hide

A love which knew no wrong.

And months went sadly on,-and years :

And she was wasting day by day : At length she died,—and many tears

Were shed that she should pass away.

Then came a gray old man, and knelt

With bitter weeping by her tomb :And others mourned for him, who felt

That he had sealed a daughter's doom.

The funeral train has long past on,

And time wiped dry a father's tear! Farewell,—lost maiden !—there is one

That mourns thee yet,—and he is here.


When breath and sense have left this clay,
In yon damp vault, oh! lay me not!
But kindly bear my bones away
To some lone, green, and sunny spot ;
Where few shall be the feet that tread
With reckless haste upon my grave;
And gently o'er my last, still bed
To whispering winds the grass shall wave.


The wild flowers too, I loved so well,
Shall blow and breathe their sweetness there,
And all around my grave shall tell,

She felt that nature's face was fair.”
And those that come because they loved
The mouldering frame that lies below,
Shall find their anguish half removed,
While that sweet spot shall soothe their wo.
The notes of happy birds alone
Shall there disturb the silent air;
And when the cheerful sun goes down,
His beams shall linger longest there.
And if,—when soft night breezes wake,
Roving among the sleeping flowers,
When dews their airy home forsake,
To rest till morn in earthly bowers,
If then some dearer friend than all
Steal to my grave to weep awhile,
And happier hours awhile recall,
And bid fond Memory beguile
The tediousness of cherished grief,
Faintly descried—a fading ray-
My passing ghost shall breathe relief,
And whisper_“Lingerer! come away!"


It is the spot I came to seek,

My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot, I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out

A ridge toward the river side ;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadow smooth and wide;
The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,

Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns so fresh and green

Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not—I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,

The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground

Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

« AnteriorContinuar »