And but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away;
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished
earth!

THE DIRGE.

LORD BYRON.

WHAT is the existence of man's life
But open war, or slumbered strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements;
And never feels a perfect peace,

Till Death's cold hand signs his release?

THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE.
HUSBAND and wife! no converse now ye hold,
As once ye did in your young days of love,
On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays,
Its silent meditations and glad hopes,
Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ;
Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss
Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares
Call you not now together. Earnest talk
On what your children may be moves you not.
Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence;
Not like to that in which ye rested once
Most happy, silence eloquent, when heart
With heart held speech, and your mysterious
frames,

Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat
Touched the soft notes of love.

A stillness deep,

Insensible, unheeding, folds you round,
And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in;

But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought,
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb?-
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms
Of uncreated light have visited, and lived?.
Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne
Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh
Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed
In glory? throne before which even now
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed?-
Souls that thee know by a mysterious sense,
Thou awful unseen Presence, - are they quenched?
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes
By that bright day which ends not; as the sun
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars?
And do our loves all perish with our frames?
Do those that took their root and put forth buds,
And then soft leaves unfolded in the warmth
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers?
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give
speech,

And make it send forth winning harmonies,
That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance,
Are these the body's accidents, no more?
To live in it, and when that dies go out
Like the burnt taper's flame?

O listen, man! A voice within us speaks the startling word, "Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices Hymn it around our souls; according harps, By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality; Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song.

O listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; Is floating in day's setting glories; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears; Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful

eve,

All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, As one vast mystic instrument, are touched

By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.

The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

Why is it that I linger round this tomb? What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I

mourn.

They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes,
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell
In love, their God's and angels'! Mutual love,
That bound them here, no longer needs a speech
For full communion; nor sensations strong,
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy.
Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each
By natures new impart themselves, though silent.
Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love,
Affections sanctified, and the full glow
Of being, which expand and gladden one,
By union all mysterious, thrill and live
In both immortal frames; sensation all,
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and
thought!

Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a consciousness
Twofold, yet single, this is love, this life!
Why call we, then, the square-built monument,
The upright column, and the low-laid slab
Tokens of death, memorials of decay?
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man,
And learn thy proper nature; for thou seest
In these shaped stones and lettered tables figures
Of life. Then be they to thy soul as those
Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God
Brought to the old Judeans, types are these
Of thine eternity.

I thank thee, Father,
That at this simple grave on which the dawn
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath
No close, thou kindly unto my dark mind
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away
From this green hillock, whither I had come
In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy.

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

THE ENDS OF LIFE.

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April flowers,

A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,

An honor that more fickle is than wind,

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,