The Departed.

The departed! the departed!

They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories

Like shadows over streams;

But where the cheerful lights of home

In constant lustre burn,

The departed, - the departed
Can never more return!

The good, the brave, the beautiful!
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep,
Or where the hurrying night-winds,
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around and feel the awe

Of one who walks alone,
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strewn.
I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees;
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,

Can never be so dear to me,

As their remembered words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall!
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel plumage on;
But my heart is very desolate
To think that they are gone.

The departed! the departed!
They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories,
Like shadows over streams;

But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,

The departed, the departed

Can never more return!

PARK BENJAMIN. The Motherless.

I never knew what 't was to have

A mother kind and good,

To cheer me when I would be grave And chide me when I 'm rude;

I never felt upon my cheek

Her soft and gentle kiss,

And never, never heard her speak
In tones of tenderness.

She never comes at morning light,
To hear my waking sound,
Nor, when I lay me down at night,
To close the curtains round.
She is not near me when I play
Amid the open air,

Nor when I kneel me down to pray
Beside my little chair.

I 'm sure that I would like to sit
All day beside her seat,
And watch her fingers, as they knit
A stocking for my feet.

And then, perhaps she 'd read to me
From out some pretty book, -
I'm sure I should be full of glee
To see her pleasant look.

I see the other girls around

A mother's fondness prove,
But I have never heard the sound
Of a fond mother's love.

I cannot think what I have done,
I 've always spoken true,
Why can't I with the others run
And kiss a mother too?

In yonder quiet burial ground,
Just by that willow tree,
There riseth up as green a mound
As you could wish to see.
A tall white stone is at its head,

A small one at the foot,

And violets and roses red

And pinks have there been put.

One day I wandered there alone,

I know not how or why,

And leaned against that tallest stone,

'T was twice as tall as I.

Some letters were upon its face;

I saw them as I stood,

And thought it would be nice to trace Their meaning, if I could.

A little silver pen I had, -
My teacher's premium,

She gave it me when I was sad
And crying o'er a sum.
Then spelled I with my silver pen
The words "In Memory; "
Then came a little " of " and then
My own name, "Mary Lee!”

I put my hand upon my head
To think what it could mean,
I knew I never had been dead
And come to life again.
'T was long before I understood
The words which I had read,
And then an overwhelming flood
Of burning tears I shed.

Now daily when the sun hath gone,
And from my task I 'm free,

I wander there and sit alone
Beneath the willow tree.
With many tears amid my prayer,
That tall white stone I lave,
For I suppose it rises there
To mark my mother's grave.

J. L. CHESTER.