Where the still stars with gentlest radiance shine On forest green and flower-enamelled vale, Two simple columns circled by one vine, Tell to the traveller's eye the tender tale Of constancy in life and death--and love, Not e'en the horrors of the tomb could move. Here strained, and struggling with the unequal might Of sea and tempest, the poor foundering bark, And the snapp'd cable, chiselled on yon height, Where calmly sleeps the wave-tossed pilot mark; Hope, with her anchor, pointing to the sky, Triumphant hails the spirit flight on high! Hark! how the solemn spirit dirge ascends In floating cadence on the evening air, Where with clasped hands the weeping angel bends In human grief o'er her that's buried there; The gentle maid, in festive garments hurled From life's gay glitter to the gloomy world! Thy childish laughter lingers on mine ear, Thy fairy form still floats before mine eye; Still is the music of thy footsteps near, Visioned to sense by tenderest memory; Thy soul too pure for purest mortal love, Enraptured seraphs snatched to realms above! Here where the sparkling fountain flings its spray In sportive freedom, frolicksome and wild, Mocking the wood-nymphs with its gladsome lay, Serenely sleeps the dark-eyed forest child-- Her kinsman's glory and her nation's pride! A chieftain's daughter and a warrior's bride! Oft shall the pale face, pensive o'er thy mound, Weep for the white man's shame, the red man's wrong; Oft from spring warblers, o'er this hallowed ground, Shall gush the tenderest melody of song, For the poor pilgrim to that distant shore, Her fathers loved, their sons shall see no more! Pause, weary wanderer, pause! In yon lone glade Where silence reigns in deep funereal gloom, Where the pale moonbeams struggle through the shade, Open the portals of "The Stranger's Tomb!" No holier symbol taught since time began The sacred sympathy of man for man! Dear Greenwood! when the solemn heights I tread, And catch the gray old ocean's sullen roar, Chanting the dirge of the mighty dead, Over whose graves the oblivious billows pour, A tearful prayer is gushing from my breast, "Here in thy peaceful bosom may I rest!-- "Rest till the signal calls the ransomed throng With shouts their Saviour and their God to greet; Rest till the harp, the trumpet, and the song Summon the dead, Death's conqueror to meet; And love, imperfect, man's best gift below, In heaven eternal rapture shall bestow!" AN AUGUST REVERIE. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE BY A. OAKLEY HALL.