Waken not the dust that deepens Deepens in the silence, Deepens in the dark; Hist! the spectres gather, Blood upon the panels, Blood upon the floor, Blood that baffles wear and washing, ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. [Born in 1818. A Bishop in the Protestant Episcopal Church; author of Saul, a Mystery, and various other poetical as well as prose writings]. MARCH. MARCH-march-march ! Making sounds as they tread, Every stride, every tramp, As darkness grows drearer; Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Going down to the dead! Q How they whirl-how they trip, Going down to the valley; Making sounds as they tread; Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Earth groans as they tread! Going down to the dead! With a skull on his shoulder! But ho! how he steps With a high-tossing head, That clay-covered bone, [Born about 1818. WILLIAM LORD. Author of Christ in Hades, a poem in eight Books, published in 1851. Mr. Lord is a minister of the Protestant Episcopal Church]. THE BROOK. A LITTLE blind girl wandering, While daylight pales beneath the moon; To hear its gentle tune. The little blind girl by the brook, It told her something, you might guess, To see her smile, to see her look Though blind, a never-silent guide And down she wandered by its side And sometimes it was soft and low, And now, upon the other side, She seeks her mother's cot, For to the blind, so little free To move about beneath the sun, But soon she heard a meeting stream, "Ah! whither, whither, my little maid? And wherefore dost thou wander here?" "I seek my mother's cot," she said, "And surely it is near." "There is no cot upon this brook; In yonder mountains dark and drear, "Oh! sir, you are not true nor kind; And on she stepped, but grew more sad, The brook's small voice seemed not so glad, "Ah! whither, whither, my little maid? "There is no cot upon this brook." "Oh go with me; the darkness nears, WILLIAM WALLACE. [Born in 1819. A lawyer, author of various poems-the longest of which is named Alban, a romance of New York, published in 1848]. GREENWOOD CEMETERY. HERE are the houses of the dead. Here youth, And age, and manhood stricken in his strength, While Earth goes murmuring in her ancient path, Upon his mountainous bed impatiently, Changeless, alone, beneath the large white dome I pause and think Among these walks lined by the frequent tombs; The populous city lifts its tall bright spires, They sleep, these calm, pale people of the past. Spring plants her rosy feet on their dim homes— They sleep.-Sweet Summer comes and calls, and calls, With all her passionate poetry of flowers Wed to the music of the soft south wind— They sleep. The lonely Autumn sits and sobs Between the cold white tombs, as if her heart Would break-they sleep.-Wild Winter comes and chants Majestical the mournful sagas learned Far in the melancholy North, where God They slumber still!-Sleep on, O passionless dead! Here Avarice shall forget his den of gold, Of wood, shall be a mirror to the moon In long delight at all below; the sea Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe |