THISTLE-DOWN.

Pale and fleecy, ghosty and white, Onward borne in their unknown flight— Flimsy and fragile, pure and fair— Mystic things the thistles are. Drifting about on a windy day— Ghosty children at their play— Revelling up above the trees, Hither and thither on the breeze. Slow and sadly, how they fly, Chasing shadows in the sky! Never resting, never still, Through the valley, o'er the hill. Walking round o'er the churchyard mould, Up above the bosoms cold; Flitting past each marble door, Sadly breathing: 'Gone before!' Spectres wild with their viewless steeds, Riding on where nothing leads; Up to the sky when the earth gets brown— Ever restless thistle-down. Through the forest cool and dark, Never hitting the destined mark; Over the earth and through the air, Downy thistles everywhere. Darting in at the open door, Telling of joys that come no more; Robed in grave clothes fine and thin— Shades of phantoms, ever dim. Up the church-aisles Sabbath-days, Where the dusky twilight plays; Round the altar, o'er the bier, Preaching more than priests do here. Solemn are the words they say— Silent sermons free ofPAY; And the lessons they impart, Never vanish from the heart.