O Doubting Heart.

WHERE are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.—

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas

They wait in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze

To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.—

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft, white, ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays

These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?

O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky

That soon, for spring is nigh,

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night:

What sound can break the silence of despair?—

O doubting heart!

The sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,

And Angels' silver voices stir the air.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch

Where the golden-haired Day hath been
Lying.

Going the bright, blithe Spring;
Blossoms! how fast ye fall,
Shooting out of your starry sky

Into the darkness all

Blindly!

Coming-the mellow days:

Crimson and yellow leaves;

Languishing purple and amber fruits

Kissing the bearded sheaves

Kindly!

Going-our early friends;

Voices we loved are dumb;

Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew;

Fainter the echoes come
Ringing:

Coming to join our march,

Shoulder to shoulder pressed,—

Gray-haired veterans strike their tents

For the far-off purple West--
Singing!

Going this old, old life;

Beautiful world! farewell!

Forest and meadow! river and hill!

Ring ye a loving knell

O'er us!

Coming-a nobler life;

Coming-a better land;

Coming-a long, long, night ess day;

Coming-the grand, grand

Chorus !

EDWARD A. JENKS.

The Future Life.

OW shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps

The disembodied spirits of the dead,

When all of thee that time could wither sleeps

And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain,
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again

In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there!
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 421

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,

Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this—

The wisdom which is love-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

Lines written in a Churchyard.

"It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here threber nacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."

METHINKS it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build—but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!

Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pen him below

In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride?

To the trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

Who hid, in their turns have been hid:
The treasures are squandered again ;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,

The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveler here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-the dead cannot grieve;

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve..
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.