The livelong night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waves flowing round

In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-music falls,

And rival minstrels meet.

XC.-MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE

THE trembling dew-drops fall

Upon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest,
The stars shine gloriously and all

:

Save me, are blest.

Mother, I love thy grave!

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Waves o'er thy head; when shall it wave
Above thy child?

'Tis a sweet flower, yet must

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow;
Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem; dust
Is on thy brow.

And I could love to die :

To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams-
By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,

And share thy dreams.

And I must linger here,

To stain the plumage of my sinless years,
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear
With bitter tears.

Aye, I must linger here,

A lonely branch upon a wither'd tree,
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,
Went down with thee!

Oft, from life's wither'd bower,

In still communion with the past, I turn,
And muse on thee, the only flower
In memory's urn.

And, when the evening pale,

Bows, like a mourner, on the dim, blue wave,
I stray to hear the night-winds wail
Around thy grave.

Where is thy spirit flown?

I gaze above thy look is imaged there ;
I listen and thy gentle tone
Is on the air.

O, come, while here I press

My brow upon thy grave; and in those mild
And thrilling tones of tenderness,
Bless, bless thy child!

Yes, bless your weeping child;
And o'er thy urn-religion's holiest shrine—
O, give his spirit, undefiled,

To blend with thine.

431

XCI.-"PASSING AWAY."

Was it the chime of a tiny bell,

JOHN PIERPONT.

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,—

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light,

And he, his notes as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens, and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore ?-
Hark! the notes, on my ear that play,
Are set to words :-as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silvery bell,

Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear,

As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of time.
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum swung;
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And, as she enjoy'd it, she seem'd to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

O, how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow!
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.

And lo she had changed;—in a few short hours
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fulness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she was soon to be a bride ;-
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
Passing away! passing away!"

66

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.

The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush ;

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above her,
Was a little dimm'd,- -as when evening steals

Upon noon's hot face: Yet one couldn't but love her,
For she looked like a mother, whose first babe lay
Rock'd on her breast, as she swung all day ;-
And she seem'd in the same silver tone to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

SHAKSPEARE ODE.

While yet I look'd, what a change there came!
Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan:
Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame,
Yet, just as busily, swung she on ;

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,

Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone
From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone,—
(Let me never forget till my dying day
The tone or burden of her lay,)—
"Passing away! passing away

433

XCII-SHAKSPEARE ODE.

GOD of the glorious lyre !

Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang,

While Jove's exulting choir

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

Caught the glad echoes and responsive sang-
Come! bless the service and the shrine
We consecrate to thee and thine.

Fierce from the frozen north,

When Havoc led his legions forth,

Oier Learning's sunny groves the dark destroyer spread :
In dust the sacred statue slept,

Fair Science round her altar wept,
And Wisdom cowl'd his head.

At length, Olympian lord of morn,
The raven veil of night was torn,

When, through golden clouds descending,
Thou didst hold thy radiant flight,

O'er Nature's lovely pageant bending,

Till Avon rolled, all sparkling to thy sight!

There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade, Wrapp'd in young dreams, a wild-eyed minstrel stray'd.

Lighting there, and lingering long,
Thou didst teach the bard his song;
Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell,
And round his brow a garland curl'd ;
On his lips thy spirit fell,

And bade him wake and warm the world!

Then SHAKSPEARE rose !
Across the trembling strings
His daring hand he flings,
And, lo! a new creation glows!

There, clustering round, submissive to his will,
Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil.

Madness, with his frightful scream,
Vengeance, leaning on his lance,
Avarice, with his blade and beam,

Hatred, blasting with a glance;
Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars,

And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and murders, yet adores.

Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit,

Waking Laughter's merry swell,
Arm in arm, with fresh-eyed Wit,

That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell.

Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream,
Kiss'd by the virgin moon's cold beam,
Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes,
And, swan-like, there her own dirge breathes,

Then, broken-hearted, sinks to rest,

Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her maniac breast.

Young love, with eye of tender gloom,
Now drooping o'er the hallowed tomb
Where his plighted victims lie-
Where they met, but met to die :

And now, when crimson buds are sleeping,
Through the dewy arbor peeping,

Where Beauty's child, the frowning world forgot,

To youth's devoted tale is listening,

Rapture on her dark lash glistening,

[spot.

While fairies leave their cowslip cells and guard the happy