O, when the room grows slowly dim,
And life's last oil is nearly spent,
One gush of light these eyes will brim,
Only to think She came and went.
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.
THE snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roof'd with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow;
The stiff rails were soften'd to swan's-down,
And still flutter'd down the snow.
I stood and watch'd by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying " "Father! who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-Father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I look'd at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arch'd o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heap'd so high.
I remember'd the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whisper'd,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss'd her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
MARIA WHITE LOWELL.*
Born at Watertown, Mass: 1821-died 1853.
THE MORNING-GLORY.
WE wreath'd about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;
Her little face look'd out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say,
"She is the morning glory true,
And her poor types are they."
So always, from that happy time,
We call'd her by their name;
And very fitting did it seem,
For sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.
*See Note 21.
But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,
As turn'd her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimm'd with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretch'd plea
Clasp'd all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,—
The last and perfect added gift
To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dew-drops round
Shines back the heart of day.
We never could have thought, O God!
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,
Till she lay stretch'd before our eyes:
Wilted, and cold, and dead!
The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round;
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground.
The tender things the Winter kill'd
Renew again their birth:
But the glory of our morning
Has pass'd away from earth.
O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain !
But up in groves of Paradise
Full surely we shall see Our Morning-Glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
AN OPIUM FANTASY.
SOFT hangs the opiate in the brain,
And lulling soothes the edge of pain,
Till harshest sound, far off or near,
Sings floating in its mellow sphere.
What wakes me from my heavy dream?
Or am I still asleep?
Those long and soft vibrations seem
A slumberous charm to keep.
The graceful play, a moment stopt,
Distance again unrolls,
Like silver balls, that, softly dropt,
Ring into golden bowls.
I question of the poppies red,
The fairy flaunting band,
While I, a weed with drooping head,
Within their phalanx stand:-
Some airy one, with scarlet cap,
The name unfold to me
Of this new minstrel who can lap
Sleep in his melody!"
Bright grew their scarlet-kerchief'd heads,
As freshening winds had blown,
And from their gently-swaying beds
They sang in undertone :-
"Oh he is but a little owl,
The smallest of his kin,
Who sits beneath the midnight's cowl
And makes this airy din."
"Deceitful tongues of fiery tints!
Far more than this ye know,—
That he is your enchanted prince
Doom'd as an owl to go ;-
"Nor his fond play for years hath stopt,
But nightly he unrolls
His silver balls, that, softly dropt,
Ring into golden bowls."
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.
Born at Boston, Mass: 1819—
ON A BUST OF DANTE.
SEE, from this counterfeit of him
Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song!
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide,—
Small friendship for the lordly throng,
Distrust of all the world beside.
Faithful if this wan image be,
No dream his life was--but a fight;
Could any Beatrice see
A lover in that anchorite?
To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight
Who could have guess'd the visions came
Of Beauty, veil'd with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?
The lips as Cuma's cavern close,
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose,
But for the patient hope within,—
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