THE RAISING OF JAIRUS'S DAUGHTER.
THEY have watched her last and quivering breath, And the maiden's soul has flown;
They have wrapped her in the robes of death,
And laid her dark and alone.
But the mother casts a look behind,
Upon that fallen flower,—
Nay, start, not-'twas the gathering wind⚫
Those limbs have lost their power.
And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
O'er which the faint light plays;
'Tis only the crimson curtain's glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.
Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And feel the soft pulse decay?
And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
Which bore her soul away?
She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed,
And heeds not thy gentle tread,
And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed
Which dies on its snowy bed.
The mother has flown from that lonely room,
And the maid is mute and pale:
Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,
And dark is her stiffened nail.
Her mother strays with folded arms,
And her head is bent in woe;
She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms;
Nor tear attempts to flow.
But listen! what name salutes her ear?
It comes to a heart of stone;
"Jesus," she cries, "has no power here;
My daughter's life has flown."
He leads the way to that cold white couch,
And bends o'er the senseless form;
Can his be less than a heavy touch?
The maiden's hand is warm!
And the fresh blood comes with a roseate hue,
While Death's dark terrors fly;
Her form is raised, and her step is true,
And life beams bright in her eye.
THAT SILENT MOON.
THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have passed beneath her placid eye,
Since, first to light this wayward earth,
She walked in tranquil beauty forth.
How oft has guilt's unhallowed hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,
Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love!
Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanished scenes,
The happy eves of days gone by! Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years. And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep, In dungeon dark or sacred cell,
Or couch whence pain has banished sleep: Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,
On those who mourn, and those who die.
But beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chastened light. There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heart— What power, the trembling tear to start! The dewy morn let others love,
Or bask them in the noontide ray'; There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day :But, oh! be mine a fairer boonThat silent moon! that silent moon!
THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.
In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,
Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene,
The retreat of the ringdove, the haunt of the deer,
Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear.
No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild flow'ret blossomed, the elm proudly waved,
And pure was the current the green bank that laved.
But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder and lightning, and storm;
All flushed from the tumults of battle he came,
Where the red men encountered the children of flame,
While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:
With a glance of disgust he the landscape surveyed,
With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide waving shade:
Where Passaic meanders through margins of green,
So transparent its waters, its surface serene.
He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurled down the chasm the thundering wave.
Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time,—
Cultivation has softened those features sublime;
The axe of the white man has lightened the shade,
And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.
But the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye,
On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;
Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong embosomed in foam.
WASHINGTON IRVING.
HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT LODORE?
HERE it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting, strong,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Twining and twisting,
Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.
Reeding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering;
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering.
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering.
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,
And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried:
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave of the hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
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