FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. WHEN the hours of Day are number'd, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed The beloved ones, the true-hearted, He, the young and strong, who cherish'd Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perish'd, They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. AUGUST. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Utter'd not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depress'd and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! AUGUST. BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. DUST on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! A tarnish, as of rust, Dims thy late-brilliant sheen: And thy young glories-leaf, and bud, and flowerChange cometh over them with every hour. Thee hath the August sun Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face; Scarce whispering in their pace, The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent 63 64 AUGUST. Flame-like, the long midday, With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd Where rests the panting bird, Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, And Seeds in the sultry air, gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees; E'en the tall pines, that rear Their plumes to catch the breeze, The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, Happy, as man may be, Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine bower, Robs each surrounding flower, And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, Against the hazy sky The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest. In the dim, distant west, The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, Soberly, in the shade, Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox; Shelter'd by jutting rocks: The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush AUGUST. Tediously pass the hours, Where the slant sunbeams shoot: But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge: The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Pleasantly comest thou, Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass; As the light breezes pass, That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand, So, to the thirsting soul, Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love; Turneth in joy above, To where the spirit freely may expand, And rove, untrammell'd, in that "better land." 6* 65 TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BY JONES VERY. BRIGHT image of the early years When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, The morning's blush, she made it thine, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well-known tree, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. And, hastening to each flowery nook, Fair child of art! thy charms decay, Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; |