NOT DEAD.

And thou art gone, the meek flowers wave

In sadness o’er thine early grave;

The wild-bird comes with mellow song,

And balmy airs sweep lightly on;

O’er all the rank and nodding grass

The summer’s shadows gently pass,

While children glad go softly by

With timid step and tearful eye.

Too well I know that thou art gone,

Thy brow is cold, thy cheek is wan;

Pale buds are in thy sunny hair,

Thy chill hands clasp a lily fair,

A shroud, with white and moveless fold,

Lies on thy heart so still and cold;

And yet not thus I think of thee—

Thou art not dead, beloved, to me.

’Twas yesternight, when white-browed girls,

With star-like eyes and golden curls,

Came sadly in the twilight deep

And bent above thy grave to weep;

That I, too, came, with wild unrest,

With yearnings for the grave’s sweet rest;

But peace and hope, and trust in Heaven,

Were to my sorrowing spirit given.

Not dead! in what a blessed trance

My spirit heard, through Heaven’s expanse,

Those sweet words float; those words of life

That calmed the bootless, bitter strife.

Thine angel wings swept far away

The mists that veiled a brighter day;

And now Life’s path in hope I tread,

Although its joyous light is fled.

L. L. M.