Ah, sleep, twin sister of death and of night! My thoughts 'neath thy drap'ry still lie. Alas! that from dreams so boundless and bright We waken to life's dreary sigh. Those moments most sweet are fleetest alway, For love claspeth earth's raptures not long, Till darkness and death like mist melt away, To rise to a seraph's new song. O'er ocean or Alps, the stranger who roams But gathers a wreath for his bier; For life hath its music in low minor tones, And _man_ is the cause of its tear. But drops of pure nectar our brimming cup fill, When we walk by that murmuring stream; Or when, like the thrill of that mountain rill, Your songs float in memory's dream. Sweet spirit of love, at soft eventide Wake gently the chords of her lyre, And whisper of one who sat by her side To join with the neighboring choir; And tell how that heart is silent and sad, No melody sweeps o'er its strings! 'Tis breaking alone, but a young heart and glad-- Might cheer it, perchance, when she sings. Lynn, Mass., _August 25, 1866_. _LINES, ON VISITING PINE GROVE CEMETERY_ Ah, why should the brief bliss of life's little day Grow cold in this spot as the spiritless clay, And thought be at work with the long-buried hours, And tears be bedewing these fresh-smiling flowers! Ah, wherefore the memory of dear ones deemed dead Should bow thee, as winds bow the tall willow's head! Beside you they walk while you weep, and but pass From your sight as the shade o'er the dark wavy grass. The cypress may mourn with her evergreen tears, And, like the blue hyacinth, change not with years; Yea, flowers of feeling may blossom above, To yield earth the fragrance of goodness and love; So one heart is left me--she breathes in my ear, "I'm living to bless thee; for this are we here." And when this sweet pledge to my lone heart was given, Earth held but this joy, or this happiness heaven! Here the rock and the sea and the tall waving pine Enchant deep the senses,--subduing, sublime; Yet stronger than these is the spell that hath power To sweep o'er the heartstrings in memory's hour. Of the past 'tis the talisman, when _we three met_, When the star of our friendship arose not to set; And pure as its rising, and bright as the star, Be its course through our heavens, whether near or afar. Lynn, Mass., _August 24, 1865_. _A VERSE_ _Mother's New Year Gift to the Little Children_ Father-Mother God, Loving me,-- Guard me when I sleep; Guide my little feet Up to Thee. _To the Big Children_ Father-Mother good, lovingly Thee I seek,-- Patient, meek, In the way Thou hast,-- Be it slow or fast, Up to Thee. _TRUTH_