Where the long reeds quiver,

Where the pines make moan,

Leave we by the river

Earth to earth alone!

God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!

From the exile's sorrow,

From the wanderer's dread

Of the night and morrow,

Early, brightly fled;

Thou hast called him to a sweeter home

Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam.

Now let thought behold him

With his angel look,

Where those arms enfold him,

Which benignly took

Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast,

When his voice their tender meekness blest.

Turn thee now, fond mother!

From thy dead, oh, turn!

Linger not, young brother,

Here to dream and mourn :

Only kneel once more around the sod,

Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!

EASTER-DAY

IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCH-YARD.

THERE is a wakening on the mighty hills,

A kindling with the spirit of the morn!

Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills, And a soft visionary hue is born

On the young foliage, worn

By all the imbosom'd woods-a silvery green, Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.

And lo! where floating through a glory, sings

The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!

Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,

Trembles with melody!

While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice

To the rich augh of music in that voice.

But purer light than of the early sun
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth !
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won

Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth,
By this glad morning's birth!

And gifts more precious by its breath are shed

Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head.

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye,

O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows;

Gifts from the fount of immortality,

Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes,

Lay hush'd in dark repose,

Till thou, bright dayspring! mad'st its waves our own,

By thine unsealing of the burial stone.

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills!

And let a full victorious tone be given,

By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills

Your urn

n-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,

The radiant gate of Heaven

Unfolded-and the stern, dark shadow cast

By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom

past.

And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,

Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead,
Time with a soft and reconciling hand

The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O'er every narrow bed:

But not by time, and not by nature sown

Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath

grown.

Christ hath arisen! oh! not one cherish'd head
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled

In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)