Sometimes I dream a happy dream
I think that she is laid
Beside our own old village church, Where we so often played; And I can sit upon her grave, And with her we shall lie, Afar from where the city's noise And thronging feet go by.
Nay, mother-mother-weep not so, God judges for the best,
And from a world of pain and woe He took her to his rest;
Why should we wish her back again? Oh! freed from sin and care,
Let us the rather pray God's love, Ere long to join her there.
13. MY COUNTRY, I LOVE THEE. ОH, England! thy white cliffs are dearer to me Than all the famed coast of a far foreign sea; What emerald can peer, or what sapphire can vie With the grass of thy fields or thy summer-day sky? They tell me of regions where flowers are found, Whose perfume and tints spread a paradise round; But brighter to me cannot garland the earth Than those that spring forth in the land of
My country, I love thee: though freely I'd rove Through the western savannah, or sweet orange grove ; Yet warmly my bosom would welcome the gale That bore me away with a homeward-bound sail. My country, I love thee !-and oh, may'st thou have The last throb of my heart, ere 'tis cold in the grave; May'st thou yield me that grave in thine own daisied earth, And my ashes repose in the land of my birth!
14. THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.
THE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds, new roofed with Carrara, Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swans'-down: And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow birds Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little head-stone stood,
How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow ?" And I told of the good Allfather
Who cares for us all below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky, That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience That fell from the clouds like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of that deep-stabbed woe.
And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall."
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her, And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister Folded close under deepening snow.
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,
By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep; "Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;
"Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come ;
'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark,
Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly!
" Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy! The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.
Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !
17. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.
ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold :— Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou ?"-The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee then Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
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