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A DREAM OF HARVEST.

This hand in hand of thine was clasped, As never, never more!

God's sun upon the threshold burned

As, mute, we crossed it o'er; The lusty reapers lay athirst, Prone on the stubble floor.

Though drowsy noon was at his full,
We heard no watch-dog's call;
For silent as a dream of love,

We passed amidst them all;
We passed, it seemed, as spirits pass,
Whose footsteps have no fall.

Like spirits, too, we both inhaled
The air of peace and faith;
Of joy too deep for mortal speech,
We drew the living breath,
And proved the everlasting truth,
How Love may conquer Death.

The dreamer's soul is wisdom-born,
And what it loves, believes ;
The teeming earth had not a grave,
There were no withered leaves;
There was no winter in the world

As we leaned among the sheaves.

The parching ground no dew-drop bore,
To bring back thoughts of tears;
The tenderest breath love ever drew
Shook soft the golden ears,

That we in one full sheaf might glean
The scattered hopes of years.

The soaring lark sprung high for joy
To other, higher goals;

A DREAM OF HARVEST.

We were content to drink the light-
The light that earthward rolls;
To stand amid the sheaves, and feed
The hunger of our souls.

The autumn shadows fell apace,
But we were in our June:
We tarried till the rustic pipe

Made music 'neath the moon ;
Our hearts amid the reapers danced,
But to another tune.

We long outstayed the festive feet,
Till not a sound fell near;

A trance so full and deep was ours,
That we might almost hear,
Amid the rapturous hush of night,
The grain drop from the ear.

We tarried, till a riper glow

The glowing sheaves did take,

When warm o'er all the crested hills

We saw the red dawn break;

And, silent still, clasped hand to hand,
We watched the world awake!

My dream was done; black night came back,
And back came death and pain:
Hot tears, that blotted heaven's face,
Swept down like autumn rain.—
O God, when in Thy harvest-field
Shall we two stand again?

Eleonora Louisa Hervey.

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

A CLOUD is on my heart and brow,
The tears are in my eyes,
And wishes fond, all idle now,
Are stifled into sighs ;-
As, musing on thy early doom,
Thou bud of beauty, snatched to bloom,
So soon, 'neath milder skies,

I turn, thy painful struggle past,

From what thou art to what thou wast!

I think of all thy winning ways,

Thy frank but boisterous glee,
Thy arch, sweet smiles, thy coy delays,
Thy step, so light and free;

Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run,
Thy gladness when the task was done
And gained thy mother's knee;—
Thy gay, good-humoured, childish ease,
And all thy thousand arts to please!

Where are they now, and where, oh where !

The eager, fond caress,

The blooming cheek, so fresh and fair,

The lips all sought to press ?
The open brow, and laughing eye,
The heart that leaped so joyously?

Ah! had we loved them less!
Yet there are thoughts can bring relief,
And sweeten even this cup of grief.

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

Thou hast escaped a thorny scene,

A wilderness of woe,

Where many a blast of anguish keen
Had taught thy tears to flow;
Perchance some wild and withering grief
Had sered thy summer's earliest leaf,
In these dark bowers below,
Or sickening thrills of hope deferred,

To strife thy gentlest thoughts had stirred!

Thou hast escaped life's fitful sea,

Before the storm arose,

Whilst yet its gliding waves were free
From aught that marred repose ;
Safe from the thousand throes of pain,
Ere sin or sorrow breathed a stain
Upon thine opening rose ;-
And who can calmly think of this,
Nor envy thee thy doom of bliss?

I culled from home's beloved bowers
To deck thy last long sleep,
The brightest-hued, most fragrant flowers
That summer's dews may steep:
The rosebud, emblem meet, was there,
The violet blue, and jasmine fair,

That drooping seemed to weep ;-
And now I add this lowlier spell :—
Sweets to the passing sweet, farewell!

Alaric A. Watts.

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