The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked ;-he is not there! He lives! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; And on his angel brow I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'T will be our heaven to find that-he is there! JOHN PIERPONT. The Alpine Shepherd. WH HEN on my ear your loss was knelled, A little spring from memory welled Which once had quenched my bitter thirst; And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as cooling dew, To steal some fever from yo ir grief. THE ALPINE SHEPHERD. After our child's untroubled breath And friends came round with us to weep They, in the valley's sheltering care, To any shelves of pasture green That hang along the mountain side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mists the sunbeams glide. But naught can lure the timid things, The steep and rugged path to try, Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, Till in his arms their lambs he takes, When, heedless of the rifts and breaks, And in those pastures lifted fair, More dewy soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed. This parable, by nature breathed, 309 A blissful vision through the night Holding our little lambs asleep- MARIA LOWELL. Only a Curl. `RIENDS of faces unknown, and a land Unvisited over the sea, Who tell me how lonely you stand While you ask me to ponder, and say Shall I speak like a poet, or run Into weak woman's tears for relief? Oh, children-I never lost one; Yet my arm's round my own little son, And I feel what it must be and is, And a rapture of light you forego: ONLY A CURL. How you think, staring on at the door Where the face of your angel flashed in, For the dark of your sorrow and sin. "God lent him and takes him," you sigh. He gives what he gives: I appeal To all who bear babes; in the hour The motherhood's advent in power, And the babe cries-has each of us known Life of life, love of love, moan of moan, Through all changes, all times, everywhere, He's ours, and forever. Believe, O father!-O mother, look back He gives what he gives. Be content! And scourged away all those impure. 311 He lends not, but gives to the end, And finish it up to your dream,— Or keep, as a mother may, toys Too costly, though given by herself, Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys, Kept over their heads on the shelf. So look up, friends! you who indeed Have possessed in your house a sweet piece Of the heaven which men strive for, must need Be more earnest than others are-speed Where they loiter, persist where they cease. You know how one angel smiles there,- To be drawn by a single gold hair Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair ELIZABETH B. BROWNING Spinning of the Shroud. LOWLY ravel, threads of doom; SLO Slowly lengthen, fatal yarn; Death's inexorable gloom Stretches like the frozen tarn Never thawed by sunbeams kind, Man beholds it and is still, While I spin my winding-sheet! |