And well, to-day, whene'er the sad procession

Moves o'er the plain, with slow and measured tread,
Within thy silent and secure possession
The living leave the dead.

Few are the graves, for here no populous city
Feeds, with its myriad lives, the hungry Fates,
While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity,
Crowd through the open gates.

Here Death is rarer, yet full many a token

Tells of his presence, on these grassy slopes, The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken, Symbol of shattered hopes.

Here sleep brave men who, in the deadly quarrel, Fought for their country, and their life-blood poured, Above whose dust she carves the deathless laurel Wreathing the victor's sword.

And here the young cadet, in manly beauty,

Borne from the tents which skirt those rocky banks,

Called from life's daily drill and perilous duty
To these unbroken ranks.

Here too the aged man, the wife, the maiden,
Together hushed, as on His faithful breast,
Who cried, "Come hither, all ye heavy-laden,
And I will give you rest!"

And little gravestones through the grass are gleaming, Sown, like the lilies, over forms as fair,

Of whom, to-day, what broken hearts are dreaming,
Through Sabbath song and prayer.

Peace to the sleepers! may the bud and blossom,
Spring's early bloom and Summer's sweet increase,
Fail not, while Nature, on her tender bosom,
Folds them and whispers, Peace!

And here at last who could not rest contented?
Beneath, the river, with its tranquil flood;
Around, -the breezes of the morning, scented
With odors from the wood;

Above, the eternal hills, their shadows blending
With morn and noon and twilight's deepening pall;
And overhead, - the infinite heavens, attending
Until the end of all!

William Allen Butler.

P

URE

White Lake, N. Y.

as

WHITE LAKE.

their parent springs! how bright

The silvery waters stretch away,

Reposing in the pleasant light
Of June's most lovely day.

Curving around the eastern side,

Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet,

With fringe of grass and fern, the tide
Which sparkles at their feet.

Here, busy life attests that toil,

With its quick talisman, has made Fields green and waving, from a soil Of rude and savage shade.

While opposite, the forest lies

In giant shadow, black and deep,
Filling with leaves the circling sky,
And frowning in its sleep.

Amid this scene of light and gloom,
Nature with art links hand in hand,
Thick woods beside soft rural bloom,
As by a seer's command.

Here, waves the grain; here, curls the smoke; The orchard bends: there, wilds as dark

As when the hermit waters woke

Beneath the Indian's bark.

Oft will the panther's startling shriek
With the herd's quiet lowings swell,
The wolf's fierce howl terrific break
Upon the sheepfold's bell.

The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer
Dart from his covert to the wave,

And fearless in its mirror clear
His branching antlers lave.

Here, the green headlands seem to meet
So near, a fairy bridge might cross;

There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet
In smooth, unruffled gloss.

Arched by the thicket's screening leaves,
A lilied harbor lurks below,
Where on the sand each ripple weaves
Its melting wreath of snow.

Hark! like an organ's tones, the woods
To the light wind in murmurs wake,
The voice of the vast solitudes
Is speaking to the lake.

The fanning air-breath sweeps across
On its broad path of sparkles now,
Bends down the violet to the moss,
Then melts upon my brow.

Alfred Billings Street.

Willewemoc, the River, N. Y.

B

THE WILLEWEMOC IN SUMMER.

UBBLING within some

basin green

So fringed with fern, the woodcock's bill

Scarce penetrates the leafy screen,

Leaps into life the infant rill.
Oozing along, a winding streak,
O'er moss and grass, it whispers meek,
Then swelling o'er some barrier root

The tiny ripples onward shoot,
Then the clear sparkling waters spread
And deepen down their sloping bed,
Until, a streamlet bright and strong,
The Willewemoc glides along
Through its wild forest depths, to bear
Its homage to the Delaware.

Now pebbly shallows, where the deer

Just bathes his crossing hoof, and now Broad hollowed creeks, that, deep and clear, Would whelm him to his antlered brow.

Here, the smooth silver sleeps so still,
The ear might catch the faintest trill;
The bee's low hum, the whir of wings,
And the sweet songs of grass-hid things.
There, dashing by, in booming shocks,
So loud their wrath the waters wreak,
Mid floating trees and scattered rocks,
They drown the fierce gray eagle's shriek.
Here, the slight cowslip from the moss
In ripples breaks the amber gloss;
There, the whirled spray-showers upward fly
To the slant firs crag-rooted high.

Blue sky, pearl cloud, and golden beam
Beguile my steps this summer day,
Beside the lone and lovely stream,
And through its sylvan scenes to stray:
The moss, too delicate and soft
To bear the tripping bird aloft,