And thou art terrible; the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine!
But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee-there is no prouder grave

Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's-
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.



Could we but know
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,

Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,
Ah! if beyond the spirit's utmost cavil
Aught of that country should we surely know,

Who would not go!

Might we but hear
The hovering angels' high imagined chorus,

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,
One radiant vista of the realm before us-
With one rapt moment given to see and hear,

Ab! who would fear!

Were we quite sure
To find the peerless friend who left us lonely,

Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,
To gaze in eyes that here were love-lit only-
This weary mortal coil-were we quite sure,

Who would endure ?



On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,
Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap,
The wind that through the pine trees sung
The naked elm boughs tossed and swung;
While, through the window frosty-starred,
Against the sunset purple barred,
We saw the sombre crow flap by,
The hawk's gray fleck along the sky,
The crested blue-jay flitting swift,
Erect, alert, his thick gray tail
Set to the north wind like a sail.
It came to pass, our little lass,
With flattened face against the glass,
And eyes in which the tender dew
Of pity shone, stood gazing through
The narrow space her rosy lips
Had melted from the frost's eclipse;
“Oh, see,” she cried, "the poor blue-jays!
What is that the black crow says !
The squirrel lifts his little legs
Because he has no hands, and begs;
He's asking for my nuts, I know;
May I not feed them on the snow q
Half lost within her boots, her head
Warm sheltered in her hood of red,
Her plaid skirt close about her drawn,
She floundered down the wintry lawn;
Now struggling through the misty vail
Blown round her by the shrieking gale;
Now sinking in a drift so low
Her scarlet hood could scarcely show
Its dash of color on the snow.
She dropped for bird and beast forlorn
Her little store of nuts and corn,
And thus her timid guests bespoke :
“Come, squirrel, from yon hollow oak-

Come, black old crow--come, poor blue jay,
Before your supper is blown away!
Don't be afraid ; we all are good;
And I'm mamrea's Red Riding Hood !"
O Thou whose care is over all,
Who heedest e'en the sparrow's fall,
Keep in the little maiden's breast
The pity which is now its guest!
Let not her cultured years make less
The childhood charm of tenderness,
But let her feel as well as now,
Nor harder with her polish grow!
Unmoved by sentimental grief
That wails along some printed leaf,
But prompt with kindly word and deed
To own the claims of all who need,
Let the grown woman's self make good
The promise of Red Riding Hood !



I had a glorious coronal-emeralds, sapphires and pearls;
Brave was its glow on the frank young brow, 'mid the sheen of

the clustering curls; But the purest gem of the diadem was the first to drop awayThere are few to be told, 'mid the tarnished gold, round the tresses

scant and gray. Men ask for the jewels I wore erewhile : Over the river,” I say, and smile I had a wreath of beautiful bads, crimson and golden and blue; Through the April hours my fair, frail flowers nor change nor

drooping knew; But some shrunk and died in the summer's pride, some faded in

autumn's rain: The wild winds moan where I stand alone, on the arid, leafless


“Where are the roses you cherished of late ?” “ Over the river," I say, and wait. I had a lute, whose music was the glory of life to me; Love gave to each string its happy ring, Hope woke its melody. But the thrilling chords and the passionate words died into silence

soon, And my faint, cold touch cannot wake so much as the ghost of a

vanished tune. • Where is the measure you loved the best ?" “Over the river, with all the rest." Fast as the fleeting moments, sure as the night to the day, Our hopes and pleasures, our joys and treasures, glide from our

clasp away ; Sudden and swift the dark clouds lift, the lightning flashes down Not an hour we know on our path below, if marked for the cross

or the crown. Yet God guides all to the perfect day ; Till we cross the river, love, trust and pray.


'Tis an old, old grave: the snows and rains
Of a hundred years have left their stains
On the broken slab, which some kind band
Has pieced with an iron bolt and band
Long since— for the headstone leans awry,
Like a wheat-sheaf, when the wind sweeps by.
'Tis an old, old grave: the once trim mound
Is level now with the sloping ground;
From the tangled grass the buttercup,
With a startled, wild-fawn air, looks up,
And the coarse-leaved bardocks make their home
Where the mower's scythe has ceased to come.
'Tis an old, old grave-how came I here ?
I-I don't know. It is many a year
Since I went from home, and yet to-day
It seems I've been but an hour away!

How odd that I'm standing here alone,
With the Past so blotted out and gone !
I know the place—as a boy have played
With my mates beneath that walnut's shade :
It was smaller then-no! I declare
'Twas a chestnut tree that once stood there!
How all is changed in the spot I knew-
How thick are the graves that once were few !
How the moss has spread, how the wall sags down-
I saw it built! * * * Why, I think the town
Is nearer now than it used to be
When I was a boy. * * * What's this I see,
As I scrape the lichen from the stone ?
What name do I read? Good God, my own!



When the lamp is shattered

The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scattered

The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken

Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken

Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendor

Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute-
No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled

Love first leaves the well-built nest;

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