The venerable woods-rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn declarations all

Of the great tomb of man.

The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning-and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.—
So shalt thou rest-and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,—

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,

1

Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side

By those who in her turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves

To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.

W. C. BRYANT, 1798—

-American.

TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH
MORNING DEW,

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you,

Who are but born

Just as the modest morn

Teem'd her refreshing dew?

Alas!

you have not known that shower
That mars a flower;

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years;

Or warp'd, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings! and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep.

Is it for want of sleep
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shewn

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read,

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

R. HERRICK, 1591-1660.

THE OLD WASHERWOMAN.

You busy with the linen see

This hoary-headed woman here,

Of washerwomen halest she

Within her six-and-seventieth year.

Thus hath she still with upright heart
To earn her bread laborious striven,
And diligent fulfill'd the part

Assign'd her to fulfil by Heaven.

With joyous soul in youth's bright morn She loved, and hoped, and wedded too; She hath the lot of woman borne,

Nor light have been her cares, nor few; She hath a sickly husband nursed,

Him sire three children taught to call, Hath laid him in the grave the first; Yet faith and hope maintain'd through all

The orphans to support had she;
Willing she took it on herself,
Rear'd them in honest decency,
Order and industry her wealth.
Blessing, she sent them forth up-grown,

To bear their part in life's endeavour

And thus in age was left alone,

Yet cheerful was her heart as ever.

;

By thrift and thought small store she's won, And with her savings flax has bought, Which waking livelong nights she's spun, And thread unto the weaver brought;

To linen he has wove the thread;

And scissors she and needle taking, Her shroud with her own hand has made, Without a blemish in the making.

P

Her shroud it is her treasured prize,
Within her chest 'tis safely stored;
The first and greatest of her joys,

Her jewel and her care-worn hoard.
She puts it on each Sunday morn,

O'er God's bless'd book devoutly bending;
Then lays it by well-pleased, till borne
Herself therein to rest unending.

And I, life's evening closing round,
Would, like this woman, I had still,
Within my own allotted bound,

Fulfill'd what mine was to fulfil ;
Would, from life's chalice in my day
Strength I had known to quaff as she,
And, reach'd my journey's end, might say,
Like pleasure has my shroud for me.
-German of Chamisso.

IDLENESS.

WHAT heart can think, or tongue express,
The harm that groweth of idleness?

This idleness in some of us

Is seen to seem a thing but slight;