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THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

FORGET them not! though now their name

Be but a mournful sound,

Though by the hearth its utterance claim

A stillness round:

Though for their sake this earth no more As it hath been, may be,

And shadows, never marked before,

Brood o'er each tree :

And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet, forget them not!

Nor, where their love and life went by,

Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there,

A charm not elsewhere found;

Sad-yet it sanctifies the air,

The stream, the ground.

Then, though the wind an alter'd tone

Through the young foliage bear, Though every flower, of something gone, A tinge may wear :

Oh, fly it not !-no fruitless grief

Thus in their presence felt,

A record links to every leaf,

There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,

Still tend their garden bower,

Still commune with the holy dead,

In each lone hour.

The holy dead!-oh! blest we are,

That we may call them so,

And to their image look afar,

Through all our woe!

Blest, that the things they lov'd on earth

As relics we may hold,

That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth By springs untold!

Blest, that a deep and chastening power Thus o'er our souls is given,

If but to bird, or song, or flower,

Yet, all for Heaven.

ANGEL VISITS.

No more of talk where God or angel guest
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast.

MILTON.

ARE

ye

for ever to your skies departed?

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?

Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore? Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, And ye-our faded earth beholds you not!

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,

Man wandered from his Paradise away;

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,

Came down, high guests! in many a later day, And with the Patriarchs, under vine or oak, Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.

From you, the veil of midnight-darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the Sleeper's eye,

That saw your hosts ascending and descending

On those bright steps between the earth and sky : Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, And worshipped, awe-struck, in that fearful place.

By Chebar's brook ye passed, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;

Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure !
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour,
Was like the noise of waters in their power.

Ezekiel, chap. x.

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