THE PILGRIM'S FUNERAL. Whose plashings mingle with the village-din, Of those that freed it from its dungeon-shades. 425 LXXXVI. THE PILGRIM'S FUNERAL. It was a wintry scene, The hills were whitened o'er, JOHN H. BRYANT. And the chill north-winds were blowing keen Gone was the wood-bird's lay, That the summer forest fills, And the voice of the stream has pass'd away And the low sun coldly smil'd Through the boughs of the ancient wood, Where a hundred souls, sire, wife, and child Around a coffin stood. They raised it gently up, And, through the untrodden snow, They bore it along, with a solemn step, To a woody vale below. And grief was in each eye, As they moved towards the spot. When they laid his cold corpse low Heavy the mingled earth and snow Upon his coffin fell. Weeping, they pass'd away, And left him there alone, With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest stone. When the winter storms were gone, And the strange birds sung around, Green grass and violets sprung upon That spot of holy ground. And o'er him giant trees When these were overspread These woods are perish'd now, And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough Two centuries are flown And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown And they who laid them there, Now sleep in dust,—to tell us where, Their memory remains, And ever shall remain, More lasting than the aged fanes Of Egypt's storied plain. LXXXVIII-THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. JAMES G. PERCIVAL Now the growing year is over, Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the withered beach-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river, In the rocky dell. Now the mist is on the mountains, Reddening in the rising sun; Now the flowers around the fountains Not a spire of grass is growing, But the leaves that late were glowing, Now the torrent brook is stealing Not as when in winter pealing, That the sound of cataracts falling Darkly blue the mist is hovering Round the clifted rock's bare height All the bordering mountains covering With a dim, uncertain light :— Now, a fresher wind prevailing, Wide its heavy burden sailing, Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding Like a sheeted spectre gliding In a torch's glare :— MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. Few the hours, her light is given- 429 LXXXIX.-MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. JOHN NEAL. THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone— In a near and unchangeable tone Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by, Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night, Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright On the clouds that unfold, Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, But thick as the stars, all this music is made; In one sweet dreamy tone, Are ever blown, Forever and forever. |