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O! shade of her I held so dear,
Thy loved remembrance still is here:
In this sad heart, thou livest there,

My mother.



Weep, Emmeline, weep,

And no tongue shall reprove thee;
Weep, Emmeline, weep,

For the friends that did love thee.

The flowers in the light

Of the sunshine are blooming;

Rut the cheeks that were bright
In the grave are consuming.

The birds on the trees

Sing as sweetly as ever;
But the lips that could please

Shall give joy to thee never.

The morning may break
O'er the valley in gladness;

But the eyes cannot wake

That dispelled all thy sadness.

The evening may come,

But its fall shall endear not;

For the steps that came home
In the dusk thou shalt hear not.

Weep, Emmeline, weep,

And no tongue shall reprove thee;
Weep, Emmeline, weep,

For the friends that did love thee.

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Wild as the rocking of a bark upon a stormy sea, Are the wanderings of the spirit, through the mists of reverie;

And yet there is an unity, though indistinct and dim, Like the reflected rainbow-hues on the watery skies that

A veil of sadness had passed o'er, my spirit like a cloud, Or as around the lonely dead, is drawn the winding

shroud; I passed on in my moumfulness, and in the churchyard's

gloom, I sat me down to meditate upon an ancient tomb.

I looked around as if to ease my spirit's deep distress, But Nature's self appeared to join, in my sad weariness; The sun was passing to hisi rest,—the clouds were sailing


And the wind had spread his wings, upon the fretwork of

the sky.

His wings were shaking heavily, and sadly sighed the

trees, You mought have thought that a spirit passed upon the

fearful breeze; For the grass bowed down upon the earth, and trembled

as with fear, And I shuddered as the rustling sounds came sweeping

past my ear.

Oh it was very loneliness, yet I could not choose but stay, Though the awful thoughts that o'er me came, filled me

with dark dismay; I could not choose but look, upon the tombs so lowly laid, I could not choose but think upon — the silent and the


Oh ye dead 1 Oh ye dead! ye of the visage pale, Ye of the place of vision in Hinnom's lonely vale, tlow wonderful a tale is in your prison-house concealed, A tale we may hot—cannot know, till all things are revealed.

Ye fell away as wavelets, from the rolling sea of time,

One day was heard the soundsjof joy—the next your funeral chime ;— ,

Ye fell away in the rush of years, your day of life passed o'er,

And the place that once hath known ye well, now knoweth ye no more!

Yet though ye sleep the dreamless sleep, the rustling grass

doth wave, And fall the heavy churchyard dews, like tears upon your


But I love not to look on your tombs, nor the heaped up

earth around, For an awful tale of mortality,—it speaks without a sound.

I love to look on the lonely sea, ye slumber sweetest there, No foot there spurns your resting-place, or lays your dry

bones bare: So gaze we on the sea—'till mingled with the soul, The restless billows and the sense together wildly roll.

Yet let us think of glory as we look upon the dead,
And think not that in endless sleep, their bones at rest are

laid; For when the sun of faith hath risen on the ocean dark of

sleep, Their dreamy shades in its light will rise forbidding us to


Ye of the lovely forms!—where is your glory now?
The charnel mould is on each hand, the death-sweat on

each brow: Arise, arise ye glorious ones! better be walking dead, Than in corruption's horrors to repose your low-laid head.

Ye of the mighty arm—how powerless ye lie,

Ye of the lip of eloquence are darkly slumbering by,

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