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In the bow there stands an angel, and a cherub by her
And that cherub, trust me, brother, is 'the little boy that
Angel? No! But wife and woman; she that looked me into love,
While below she sweetly waited for her wings, and went
Had I seen through her disguising, could I so have loved and mourned?
Oh! that loving, and that weeping, would have been to worship turned.
As a maiden at her window, watches Love's pale planet rise, So my MARY's soul was watching, ever watching at her eyes. As that maiden, footsteps hearing, from the darkened window flying,
So some angel, earth-ward nearing, lured my Mary into dying!
Oh! in what far seas we wander-for we must be off that
Where none are ever stranded, yet none are heard of more. I am sure there is no record left, of one that ever sailed, Who was ever in such music, by such a vision hailed.
But that lonely graveyard, brother—in its bosom let me rest, With the turf as green above me, as my childhood's feet impressed;
Where our mother's songs still linger, linger in the evening
Sweetly dreamless could I slumber-slumber there, if any
When this being's wild campaigning, and the dreary march
Will you bear me then, my brother, where that march at morn begun?
But remember-not a mourner! Let no tears be shed for
For whose worthless sake when living, loving eyes could e'er grow dim.
Will you rear a tablet, brother, with this simple emblem graced,
Just a female figure bending-on her lips a finger placed? Thus they'll read it who may linger: 'Silent he, and silent
What he was-but that's all over!-what he is, is naught to thee!'
THERE is a story told, some where, of a celebrated musician, who lay upon his dying bed. A youth entered an adjoining apartment, sat down to a piano, and began to play a tune. For some reason, he stopped abruptly in the midst of a strain, and left the room. The air was a favorite one with the dying son of song, and the notes untouched, so haunted him as he lay there, that he rose from his couch, seated himself at the instrument, took up the tune, where the youth had left it, played it out, returned to his pillow, and in a moment, was dead.
I know not that it is true, but it is touching and
suggestive enough to be so.
The world is full of life; each life is a tune; so the world is a great Orchestra; and of them all, how few tunes are played through!—how many ended as they were not begun!
Marches are sounded every day: strong, brave marches, that end too soon in a dying fall.'
Whirling waltzes, set off to the time of the youngest, merriest hearts, subside into dirges, sad and slow. Pæans turn to plaints, and all, at last, are hushed in the measured beat of the muffled drums' of life.
And of all these strains of hope and harmony, how many are unended-no dying musician to take them up, when those who struck them first, are dumb or dead.
But isn't it a pleasant thought that perhaps some body may take up the tune, when we are dead-not a note lost, not a jar, not a discord, but all a swanlike harmony? Perhaps ! perhaps! There is something hollow, like a knell, in that word. The veil that hides the future is woven of 'perhaps ;' in it the greatest ills have their solace, the brightest joys their cloud.
The broken strains of thought in this little book, are, as you will not grieve to know, now ended, and no body in the next room to play on.
May neither your life nor mine, be composed of random scores,' but be a beautiful Anthem, harmony in all its parts, melody in all its tones; not a strain wanting, not a note out of the tune; till 'the daughters of music are brought low,' and the life-anthem is