WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. THE trembling dew-drops fall Upon the shutting flowers, like souls at rest, Save me, is blest. Mother, I love thy grave! The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, 'Tis a sweet flower, yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow, WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 181 And I could love to die, To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams, By thee, as erst in childhood, lie, And share thy dreams. And must I linger here, To stain the plumage of my sinless years, Ay, must I linger here, A lonely branch upon a blasted tree, Oft from life's withered bower, In still communion with the past I turn, And, when the Evening pale Bows like a mourner on the dim blue wave, I Around thy grave. Where is thy spirit flown? gaze above-thy look is imaged there, T 182 WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. I listen and thy gentle tone Is on the air. Oh come, while here I press My brow upon thy grave-and, in those mild And thrilling tones of tenderness, Bless, bless thy child! Yes, bless thy weeping child, And o'er thine urn-religion's holiest shrineOh give his spirit undefiled To blend with thine. EXTRACT FROM PROMETHEUS. BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL. OUR thoughts are boundless though our frames are frail, The temple of the power whom all obey, I feel it-though the flesh is weak, I feel The spirit has its energies untamed 184 PROMETHEUS. By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal The wounds which it has suffered; folly claimed Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly, Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky. We are as barks afloat upon the sea Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, And kindling in the blaze around him shed, Our home is not on earth; although we sleep, Of sense and selfishness; the day will break, Even at the parting hour the soul will wake, |