Poet! underneath the turf, Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow, Thou hast struggled through the surf Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow. Now, beneath the moaning pine, Full of rest, thy body lieth, While far up in clear sunshine, Underneath a sky divine, Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth; Oft she strove to spread them here, But they were too white and clear For our dingy atmosphere. Thy body findeth ample room In its still and grassy tomb By the silent river; But thy spirit found the earth Narrow for the mighty birth Which it dreamed of ever; Thou wast guilty of a rhyme Learned in a benigner clime, And of that more grievous crime, An ideal too sublime For the low-hung sky of Time. The calm spot where thy body lies Gladdens thy soul in Paradise, It is so still and holy; Thy body sleeps serenely there, And well for it thy soul may care, It was so beautiful and fair, Lily white so wholly. From so pure and sweet a frame Thy spirit parted as it came, Gentle as a maiden; Now it lieth full of rest— Sods are lighter on its breast Than the great, prophetic guest Wherewith it was laden. * * * * * SONNET TO MY MOTHER. BY T. HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D. Before mine eyes had seen the light of day, Or that my soul had come from Heaven’s great King— A harmless, tiny, helpless little thing— You loved me!—While my tender being lay In the soft rose-leaves of your heart at rest, Like some lone bird within its downy nest, Beneath the concave of its mother’s wing, Unborn—your soul came in my heart to dwell, Like perfume in the flower, each part to bring, As warmth unto the young bird in its shell, And built me up to what I was to be, A semblance of thyself. Thus, being cast In thy heart’s mould, I grew up like to thee, And lost in thee my first friend with my last! * * * * * BOSTON RAMBLINGS. BY MISS LESLIE. PART THE FIRST.