Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,

Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;

Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,

To their own far-off murmurs listening.

TRANQUILLITY! the sovereign aim wert thou
In heathen schools of philosophic lore;
Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore

The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow ;
And what of hope Elysium could allow
Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore
Peace to the mourner. But, when He who wore
The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow
Warm'd our sad being with celestial light,
Then Arts which still had drawn a softening grace
From shadowy fountains of the Infinite
Communed with that Idea face to face;
And move around it now, as planets run
Each in its orbit round the central Sun.

III.

GRAVE, SOLEMN, SERIOUS, PATHETIC.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,

Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they

near?

Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we

hear.

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their

souls!"

Who is losing? who is winning?

plain,

"Over hill and over

I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain

rain."

Holy Mother, keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once

more:

"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has roll'd away;

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of

gray.

Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;

There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their

heels.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now ad

vance!

Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging

lance!

Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;

Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball."

Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on.

Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost and who has won?

"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall; O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them

all!"

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, save my brain!

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of

slain;

Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise:

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!

"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see?

O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once

more

On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is

o'er."

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to

rest;

Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said: To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,

Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;

But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,

She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turn'd away her

head;

With a sad and bitter feeling look'd she back upon her dead ; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,

And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.

Whisper'd low the dying soldier, press'd her hand, and faintly smiled:

Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup

plied;

With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmur'd he, and died.

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,

And turn'd to soothe the living still, and bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena ! "Like a cloud before the

wind

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded

strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! O, thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all!

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle

roll'd,

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew

cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food;

Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they

hung,

And the dying foeman bless'd them in a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden

flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle Love and Pity send their prayer,

And still Thy white-wing'd angels hover dimly in our air.

THANATOPSIS.

W. C. BRYANT.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks