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Like them, I think, when I am gone,
And soundly sleep as they,
Alike unnoticed and unknown
Shall pass my name away.
Yet, ah!-and let me lightly tread!—
She sleeps beneath this stone,
That would have soothed my dying bed,
And wept for me when gone.
Her image 'tis-to memory dear—
That clings around my heart,
And makes me fondly linger here,
Unwilling to depart.
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL.
By Lord BYRON.
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine,
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine:
On earth, thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immutably be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with thee.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be;
There should not be the shadow of gloom,
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree,
May spring from the spot of thy rest,
But nor cypress nor yew let us see,
For why should we mourn for the blest.
THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.
By N. P. WILLIS, one of the living poets of America. FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain
Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance,
Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast,
Like the dead marble, white and motionless.
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips,
And as it stirr'd with the awakening wind,
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes,
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily
She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there-
The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd
Into his face until her sight grew dim
With the fast-falling tears, and, with a sigh
Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name,
She gently drew his hand upon her lips,
And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk
Upon his knees, and in the drapery
Of the rich curtains buried up his face-
And when the twilight fell, the silken folds
Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held
Had ceased its pressure, and he could not hear
In the dead, utter silence, that a breath
Came through her nostrils, and her temples gave
To his nice touch no pulse, and at her mouth
He held the lightest curl that on her neck
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze
Ached with its deathly stillness.
It was night-
And softly o'er the Sea of Galilee
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore,
Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon.
The breaking waves play'd low upon the beach
Their constant music, but the air beside
Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice,
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet,
Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air,
Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock,
With the broad moonlight falling on his brow,
He stood and taught the people. At his feet
Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell,
And staff, for they had waited by the sea
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd
For his wont teachings as he came to land.
His hair was parted meekly on his brow,
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell
As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep,
And in his looks the same mild majesty,
And in his mien the sadness mix'd with power,
Fill'd them with love and wonder. Suddenly,
As on his words entrancedly they hung,
The crowd divided, and among them stood
JAIRUS THE RULER. With his flowing robe
Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came,
And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew
The twelve disciples to their Master's side,
And silently the people shrunk away,
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst
Alone. A moment longer on the face
Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze,
And as the twelve look'd on him, by the light
Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear
Steal to his silver beard, and drawing nigh
Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem
Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands
Press'd it upon his lips, and murmur'd low,
"Master! my daughter!"—
The same silvery light,
That shone upon the lone rock by the sea,
Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals
As at the door he stood, and welcomed in
Jesus and his disciples. All was still.
The echoing vestibule gave back the slide
Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam
Of moonlight slanting to the marble floor
Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms
As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps
He trod the winding stair, but ere he touch'd
The latchet, from within a whisper came,
"Trouble the Master not-for she is dead!"
And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side,
And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice
Choked in its utterance ;-but a gentle hand
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear
The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low,
"She is not dead-but sleepeth."
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns
Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke
Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls.
The silken curtains slumber'd in their folds-
Not even a tassel stirring in the air-
And as the Saviour stood beside the bed,
And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard
The quickening division of his breath
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came
A gradual brightness o'er his calm sad face,
And drawing nearer to the bed, he moved
The silken curtains silently apart
And look'd upon the maiden.
Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay-
The linen vesture folded on her breast,
And over it her white transparent hands,
The blood still rosy in their tapering nails.
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips,
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin,
The breathing curve was mockingly like life,
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin
Ran the light branches of the azure veins—
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay
Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow.
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears
In curls of glossy blackness, and about
Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung
Like airy shadows floating as they slept.
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said
"Maiden! Arise !"—and suddenly a flush
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips,
And through her cheek the rallied colour ran,
And the still outline of her graceful form
Stirr'd in the linen vesture, and she clasp'd
The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes
Full on his beaming countenance—AROSE!
THE TWO SAYINGS.
By Mrs. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures beat
Like pulses, in the church's brow and breast;
And, by them, we find rest in our unrest,
And, heart-deep in salt tears, do yet entreat
as if on heavenly seat.
One is, AND JESUS WEPT,-whereon is prest
Full many a sobbing face that drops its best
And sweetest waters on the record sweet :-
is, where the Christ denied and scorn'd LOOKED UPON PETER! Oh, to render plain, By help of having loved a little, and mourn'd,That look of sovran love and sovran pain, Which He who could not sin, yet suffer'd, turn'd On him who could reject, but not sustain !
THE POOR MAN'S DAY.
By EBENEZER ELLIOTT.
SABBATH holy !
To the lowly
Still art thou a welcome day. When thou comest, earth and ocean, Shade and brightness, rest and motion, Help the poor man's heart to pray.
Bird, that soarest
O'er the mute empurpled moor! Throstle's song, that stream-like flowest! Wind, that over dew-drop goest!
Welcome now the woe-worn poor.