Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm,

The summers bloom and go;

The sea withholds my dead; I walk

The bar when tides are low,

And wonder how the grave-grass

Can have the heart to grow.

Flow on, O unconsenting sea,

And keep my dead below; The night-watch set for me is long, But, through it all, I know, Or life comes, or death comes, God leads the eternal flow.

HIRAM RICH.

NE time my soul was pierced as with a sword,
Contending still with men untaught and wild,
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child.

A summer gift, my precious flower was given,
A very summer fragrance was its life;
Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven,
When home I turned, a weary man of strife.

With unformed laughter, musically sweet,

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss: With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet! O, in the desert, what a spring was this!

A few short months it blossomed near my heart:
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad;
But that home-solace nerved me for my part,
And of the babe I was exceeding glad.

Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying,
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night!)
And he who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying,
Took gently home the child of my delight.
Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished,
But gradual faded from our love away:
As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished,
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day.
My blessed Master saved me from repining,
So tenderly He sued me for His own;
So beautiful He made my babe's declining,
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done.
And daily to my board at noon and even

Our fading flower I bade his mother bring,
That we might commune of our rest in Heaven,
Gazing the while on death, without its sting.
And of the ransom for that baby paid

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, That the sure truth of grief a gladness made:

Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed!

There were two milk-white doves my wife had nour ished:

And I, too, loved, erewhile, at times to stand Marking how each the other fondly cherished, And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand! So tame they grew, that to his cradle flying,

Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest;

And to the murmurs of his sleep replying,
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast.

"I was a fair sight: the snow-pale infant sleeping,
So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild,
Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping;
Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child!
Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining,
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play;
And on the day he died, with sad note pining,
One gentle bird would not be frayed away.

"And fed them from my baby's dimpled land."

His mother found it, when she rose, sad hearted,
At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill;
And when at last, the little spirit parted,

The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill.
The other flew to meet my sad home-riding,
As with a human sorrow in its coo;
To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding,
Most pitifully plained-and parted too.

"T was my first hansel and propine to Heaven;
And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod,
Precious His comforts-once an infant given,
And offered with two turtle-doves to God!

MRS. A. STUART MENTEATH.

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,—
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingéd day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

ROBERT BURNS.

T was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love, and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee,-

With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that long ago, In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of cloud-land, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre,

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me.

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)

In this kingdom by the sea,

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling aud killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should she know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

come hame,

And a' the weary warld to rest are gane,

The waes o' my heart fall in showers frae

my ee,

Unkempt by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,

But saving a crown he had naithing else beside:
To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound they were baith for me.

He had nae been gane a twalmonth and a day,
When my faither brak his arm, and the cow was
stown away;

My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie was at sea,
And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting me.

My faither could na work, my mither could na spin,
I toiled day and night, but their bread I could na win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, an wi' tears in
his ee,

Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye nae marry me?"

But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee?

Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me!

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak, But she lookéd in my face till my heart was like to break:

They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the

sea,

And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me!

I had na been a wife a week but only four,
When mournful as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee."
Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say,-
We took but ae kiss, and tare oursels away:
I wish I were dead, but I am na lik' to dee,
Oh, why was I born to say, Wae's me!

Igang like a gaist, but I care na much to spin;

I dare na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
So I will do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.

SING unto my roundelay!

O drop the briny tear with me!

Dance no more at holiday;

Like a running river be.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the summer night, White his neck as the winter snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he dies in the grave below.

My love is dead, etc.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, he lies by the willow tree.
My love is dead, etc.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below;
Hark the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead, etc.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud,

Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, etc.

Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid
Nor one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead, etc.

With my hands I 'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead, etc.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, etc.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide.

I die! I come! my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.