THE MORNING-GLORY. We never thought to see her droop Till she lay stretched before our eyes: The morning-glory's blossoming We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth. O Earth! in vain our aching eyes Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, Her spirit to sustain! But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee. MARIA WHITE Lowell. A DIRGE. "O DIG a grave, and dig it deep, "And let it be five fathom low, Where winter winds may never blow!" "And let it be on yonder hill, "And plant it round with holy briers, We'll plant it round with holy briers, "And set it round with celandine, A DIRGE. "And let the ruddock build his nest The ruddock he shall build his nest "And warble his sweet wintry song "Now, tender friends, my garments take, "And lay me by my true-love's side, We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side, "When I am dead, and buried be, Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee, Benedicite! WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE. OVER THE RIVER. OVER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river, My brother stands waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet; She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. OVER THE RIVER. For none return from those quiet shores, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts : They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold I shall one day stand by the water cold And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST. |