Thrust in thy sickle! - England's toil-worn peas

ants

Thy call abide;

And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside!

THE TWO ANGELS.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Passed o'er the village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of

smoke.

Their attitude and aspect were the same,

Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,

And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.

I saw them pause on their celestial way; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed: "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray

The place where thy beloved are at rest!"

THE TWO ANGELS.

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And he who wore the crown of asphodels,
Descending, at my door began to knock,
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.

I recognized the nameless agony,

The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled and haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again.

The door I opened to my heavenly guest,

And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice, And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.

Then with a smile, that filled the house with light,
"My errand is not Death, but Life," he said;
And, ere I answered, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped.

'T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and, with voice divine, Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,

A shadow on those features fair and thin; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in.

All is of God! If he but wave his hand,

The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till with a smile of light on sea and land,

Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his;

Without his leave, they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door?

FOLLEN.

ON READING HIS ESSAY ON "THE FUTURE STATE."

J. G. WHITTIER.

FRIEND Of my soul! as with moist eye
I look up from this page of thine,
Is it a dream that thou art nigh,
Thy mild face gazing into mine?

That presence seems before me now,

A placid heaven of sweet moonrise, When, dew-like, on the earth below

Descends the quiet of the skies;

FOLLEN.

The calm brow through the parted hair,
The gentle lips which knew no guile,
Softening the blue eye's thoughtful care
With the bland beauty of their smile.

Ah me! at times that last dread scene

Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea Will cast its shade of doubt between

The failing eyes of Faith, and thee.

Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page,
Where through the twilight air of earth,
Alike enthusiast and sage,

Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth,

Lifting the Future's solemn veil,
The reaching of a mortal hand
To put aside the cold and pale

Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land!

In thoughts which answer to my own,
In words which reach my inward ear,
Like whispers from the void Unknown,
I feel thy living presence here.

The waves which lull thy body's rest,
The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod,
Unwasted, through each change, attest
The fixed economy of God.

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Shall these poor elements outlive

The mind whose kingly will they wrought? Their gross unconsciousness survive

Thy godlike energy of thought?

THOU LIVEST, FOLLEN!- not in vain
Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne

The burden of Life's cross of pain,

And the thorned crown of suffering worn.

Oh! while Life's solemn mystery glooms
Around us like a dungeon's wall, -
Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs,
Silent the heaven which bends o'er all!

While day by day our loved ones glide
In spectral silence, hushed and lone,
To the cold shadows which divide
The living from the dread Unknown;

While ever on the closing eye,

And on the lip which moves in vain,
The seals of that stern mystery
Their undiscovered trust retain ;

And only 'midst the gloom of death,

Its mournful doubts and haunting fears, Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith,

Smile dimly on us through their tears;