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 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, 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 Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth, 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, The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 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 In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,) |