FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

191

WHEN the hours of day are numbered, and the voices of the night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered, to a holy, calm

delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, and, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful fire-light dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed enter at the open door;

The beloved, the true-hearted, come to visit me once

more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perished, weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly, who the cross of suffering bore,

Folded their pale hands so meekly, spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous, who unto my youth was given,

More than all things else to love me, and is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep comes that messenger divine,

Takes the vacant chair beside me, lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me with those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended, is the spirit's voiceless prayer,

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, breathing from her lips of air.

Oh! though oft depressed and lonely, all my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only such as these have lived and died!

OH, THOU! WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S

TEAR.

THOMAS MOORE.

Он, Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!

The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give
Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,
As she turned to her followers-"Your lord is there!
Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!
Bear him away with his sires to rest!"

Page 199.

CASABIANCA.

MRS. HEMANS.

.

THE boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled:

The flames, that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him ;-o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood, a proud though childlike form!

The flames rolled on-he would not go without his father's word;

That father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "Say, father, say, if yet my task is done ?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "if I may yet be gone?"

But now the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on :

Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death, in still, but brave despair,

And shouted but once more aloud: "My father, must I stay ?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way.