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'My mother sings, at the twilight's fall,

A

song

of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music low—
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

"Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.

-Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,

And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye."

'Is

my

mother

gone

from her home away?

-But I know that my brothers are there at play.

I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell,

Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well,

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flowLady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

"Fair child thy brothers are wanderers now,

They sport no more on the mountain's brow,
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.

-Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot."

"Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?
-But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still,
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the turf is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow-
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

THE DEPARTED.

"Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre."-

Bryant.

AND shrink from the way

ye

To the spirit's distant shore ? Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array, Are thither gone before.

The warrior kings, whose banner
Flew far as eagles fly,

They are gone where swords avail them not,
From the feast of victory.

And the seers, who sat of yore
By orient palm or wave,

They have pass'd with all their starry lore-
Can ye still fear the grave?

-We fear, we fear!-the sunshine
Is joyous to behold,

And we reck not of the buried kings,
Or the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink-the bards whose lays

Have made your deep hearts burn, They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, For the land whence none return:

And the lovely, whose memorial
Is the verse that cannot die,
They too are gone with their glorious bloom,
From the gaze of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng

Of the earth's departed flowers,

And the masters of the mighty song

In their far and fadeless bowers?

Those songs are high and holy,

But they vanquish not our fear;

Not from our path those flowers are gone

We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile,

As the last leaves on the bough!

-Ye have lov'd the gleam of many a smile

That is taken from you now.

There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks that now are still;
There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.

Soft eyes are seen no more

That made spring-time in your heart; Kindred and friends are gone before,And ye still fear to part?

-We fear not now, we fear not!

Though the way through darkness bends;

Our souls are strong to follow them,

Our own familiar friends!