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“THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY.”
Could we but know
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,-
Who would not go ?
Might we but hear
Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,
Ah, who would fear?
Were we quite sure
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,
E. C. STEDMAN.
THE TWO VILLAGES.
Over the river, on the hill,
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Over the river, un
der the hill, Another village
lieth still ; There I see in the
cloudy night Twinkling stars of
light, Fires hat gleam
smithy's door, Mists that curl on
“ OVER THE RIVER, ON THE HILL, the river
LIETH A VILLAGE WHITE AND STILL," shore ; And in the roads no grasses grow, For the wheels that hasten to and fro,
In that village on the hill
In that village under the hill,
Rose TERRY Cooke.
OVER THE RIVER.
Over thi river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who've cross'd to the farther side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are drown'd in the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue; He cross’d in the twilight, gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there ;
The gates of the city we could not see; Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me!
Over the river, the boatman pale
Carried another,—the household pet : Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet.
She cross'd on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly enter'd the phantom bark ; We watch'd it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransom'd and angels be; Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — And lo! they have pass’d from our yearring heart ;
They cross the stream, and are gone fri aye ; We may not sunder the veil apart,
That hides from our vision the gates of day.
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river, and hill, and shore,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land;
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The Angel of Death shall carry me.
NANCY A. W. WAKEFIELD.
Her breathing soft and low,
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,
So slowly moved about,
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied-
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers,
Another morn than ours.
The sun comes up our eastern skies,
To some fond hearts and saddened eyes.