And as I looked around to see
The village sleeping quietly
Beneath the quiet skies,—

Methought that 'mid her stars so bright,
The moon in placid mirth,

Was not in heaven a holier sight
Than God's house on the earth.
Sweet image! transient in my soul !
That very bell hath ceased to toll
When the grave receives its dead-
And the last time it slowly swung,
'Twas by a dying stripling rung
O'er the sexton's hoary head!
All silent now from cot or hall!
Comes forth the sable funeral !
The Pastor is not there!

For yon sweet manse now empty stands,
Nor in its walls will holier hands

Be e'er held up in prayer.

THE DESOLATE VILLAGE.

SECOND DREAM.

BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY.

O HUSHED be our souls as this burial-ground! And let our feet without a sound

Glide o'er the mournful clay;

For lo! two radiant creatures flitting

O'er the gravestones! now moveless sitting
On a low funeral mound! 'Tis day!
And, but that ghosts where'er they rove
Do in their breathless beauty love

The cold, the wan, and the silent light

O'er the churchyard shed by the Queen of night,
Sure sister-Shades were they !

-Of many 'tis the holy faith,
E'er from the dying frame
Departs the latest lingering breath,
Its earthly garb the same,

A shadowy likeness still doth come,

A noiseless, pale-faced, beckoning wraith

To call the stranger home!

Or, are ye angels, who from bliss,
With dewy fall, unto our earth

On wings of Paradise descend,
The grave of innocence to kiss,
And tears of an immortal birth

With human tears to blend?

Ay! there they sit ! like earthly creatures

With softer, sadder, fainter features !

A halo round each head;

Fair things whose earthly course is o'er,

And who bring from some far-distant shore
The beauty that on earth they wore,
With the silence of the dead.

The dream of ghost and angel fades,
And I gaze upon two orphan-maids,
Frail creatures, doomed to die!

Spirits may be fair in their heavenly sleep,
But sure when mortal beings weep
In tears a beauty lies more deep,
The glimmering of mortality!
Their aged friend in slumber lies,

And hath closed for an hour the only eyes
That ever cheered their orphan-state,
At the hour of birth left desolate !

She sleeps! and now these maids have come
With mournful hearts to this mournful home,
Led here by a pensive train

Of thoughts still brooding on the dead;
For they have watched the breast of pain
Till it moved not on its bed,

The lifeless lips together prest,

And many a ghastly body drest,

And framed the shroud for the corse of bone That lay unheeded and alone,

When all its friends were dead and gone!

So they walk not to yon breezy mountain
To sit in the shade of its silvery fountain,
And 'mid that lofty air serene

Forget the dim and wailing scene
That spreads beneath their feet.

They walk not down yon fairy stream

Whose liquid lapses sweet

Might wrap them in some happy dream
Of a pure, calm, far retreat,

As on that rivulet seems to flow,
Escaping from a world of woe.
But this still realm is their delight,
And hither they repair

Communion with the dead to hold.
Peaceful, as at the fall of night,
Two little lambkins gliding white
Return unto the gentle air
That sleeps within the fold.

Or like two birds to their lonely nest,
Or wearied waves to their bay of rest,
Or fleecy clouds, when their race is run,

That hang, in their own beauty blest, 'Mid the calm that sanctifies the west Around the setting sun.

Phantoms! ye waken to mine eye
Sweet trains of earthly imagery :-
Whate'er on Nature's breast is found
In loveliness without a sound,
That silent seems to soul and sense,
Emblem of perfect innocence :
Two radiant dewdrops that repose
On mossy bank at evening's close,
And happy in the gentle weather,
In beauty disappear together:
Two flowers upon the lonesome moor,
When a dim day of storm is o'er,
Lifting up their yellow hair

To meet the balm of the slumbering air:
Two sea-birds from the troubled ocean
Floating with a snowy motion,

In the absence of the gale

Over a sweet inland vale :
Two early-risen stars that lie
Together on the evening-sky,
And imperceptibly pursue

Their walk along the depths of blue.
-Sweet beings! on my dreams ye rise

With all your frail humanities!
Nor earth below, nor heaven above,
An image yields of peace and love,
So perfect as your pensive breath
That brings unsought a dream of death
Each sigh more touching than the last,
Till life's pathetic tune be past!

;

THE DESOLATE VILLAGE.

THIRD DREAM.

THE DEPARTURE.

THE grave is filled and the turf is spread
To grow together o'er the dead.
The little daisies bright and fair
Are looking up scarce injured there,
And one warm night of summer-dew
Will all their wonted smiles renew,
Restoring to its blooming rest

A soft couch for the sky-lark's breast.
The funeral-party, one by one

Have given their blessing and are gone-
Prepared themselves ere long to die,

A small, sad, silent company.

The orphans robed in spotless white

Yet linger in the holy ground,

And shed all o'er that peaceful mound

A radiance like the wan moonlight.

-Then from their mother's grave they glide

Out of the churchyard side by side.
Just at the gate they pause and turn-

I hear sad blended voices mourn

66

Mother, farewell!" the last endeavour

To send their souls back to the clay.

Then they hide their eyes-and walk away From her grave-now and for ever!

Not till this parting invocation
To their mother's buried breast,
Had they felt the power of desolation!
Long as she lived, the village lay
Calm-unrepining in decay-