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OLD.

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain:
Pond, and river, still serenely flowing;
Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing:
Mary Jane!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

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There's the gate on which I used to swing,

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;

But alas! no more the morn shall bring

OLD.

That dear group around my father's table:
Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing.

I am fleeing-all I loved have fled.

Yon green meadow was our place for playing;

That old tree can tell of sweet things said
When around it Jane and I were straying;
She is dead!

I am fleeing all I loved have fled.

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,

Tracing silently life's changeful story,

So familiar to my dim old eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high:

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother;
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother,
Gone to God!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways:
Bless the holy lesson! - but ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices - silent now forever!
Peaceful days!

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

OLD.

There my Mary blest me with her hand
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing:
Broken band!

There my Mary blest me with her hand.

I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core;

I have come to see that grave once more.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told. In his eye another pearl of sorrow; Down it rolled!

Angel, said he sadly, I am old.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;

Still I marked him sitting there alone,

All the landscape, like a page, perusing ·
Poor, unknown!

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

RALPH HOYT.

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NO MORE.

No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone,

A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell,

A dying echo of rich music gone,

Breathe through those words, those murmurs of farewell:

No More!

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound,

To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,

To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice,

No more!

A dirge-like sound!-to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,
Or join the household laughter by the blaze,

No more!

Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove,

With all our native music in the air;

To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,

And turn and read our own heart's answer there,

No more!

NO MORE.

Words of despair! yet Earth's, all Earth's, the woe
Their passion breathes, the desolately deep!
That sound in Heaven-O! image then the flow
Of gladness in its tones to part, to weep,

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane,
To see the beautiful from life depart,
To wear impatiently a secret chain,

To waste the untold riches of the heart,

No more!

No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn
For human love, and never quench that thirst;
To pour the soul out, winning no return,

O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed,

No more!

away,

the dead;

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean;
To mourn the changed, the far
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen,
Intensely questioning for treasures fled,

No more!

Words of triumphant music! Bear we on

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air: Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, To learn in joy to struggle, to despair,

No more!

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

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