"THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY.” COULD we but know The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,— Ah if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil, Aught of that country could we surely know, Might we but hear The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, With one rapt moment given to see and hear, Were we quite sure To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, E. C. STEDman. THE TWO VILLAGES. OVER the river, on the hill, All around it the forest trees Of soaring hawk and screaming crow, And mountain grasses, low and sweet, And in the roads no grasses grow, For the wheels that hasten to and fro, In that village on the hill Never is sound of smithy or mill; The houses are thatched with grass and flowers; Never a clock to toll the hours; The marble doors are always shut, You cannot enter in hall or hut; All the villagers lie asleep; Never a grain to sow or reap; Silent and idle and low they lie. In that village under the hill, 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: She cross'd on her bosom her dimpled hands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, 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 fo. aye ; We may not sunder the veil apart, That hides from our vision the gates of day. We only know, that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 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. THE DEATH-BED. WE watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seem'd to speak, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, For when the morn came dim and sad IN MEMORIAM. THOMAS HOOD. FAREWELL! since never more for thee |