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And in the same succession go
To occupy the vault below.

And now the modern polished squire,

With his gay train, appear,

Who duly to the hall retire

A season every year,

And fill the seat with belle and beau,
As 'twas so many years ago.

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow sounding floor

Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall as heretofore

In turn receive to silent rest,
Another and another guest.

The feather'd hearse and sable train
In all its wonted state,
Shall wind along the village lane,
And stand before the gate,

Brought many a distant country through
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away
All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray
Shine gently o'er their heads;
While other faces fresh and new,
Shall occupy the Squire's pew.

On damask cushion, set in fringe,
All rev'rently they knelt,
Prayer-book with brazen hasp and hinge
In ancient English spelt,
Each holding in a lily hand
Responsive to the priest's command.

Then streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam long and lone,
Illumes the characters awhile
Of their inscription stone;
And there in marble hard and cold,
The knight and all his train behold.

Outstretch'd together are expressed
He and his lady fair,

With hands uplifted on the breast,
In attitude of prayer.
Long-visaged, clad in armor, he;
With ruffled arm and boddice she.I

Set forth in order as they died,
The numerous offspring bend,
Devout kneeling, side by side,
they did

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SPRING.

I. P. Willis.

THE Spring is here-the delicate footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;

And with it comes a thirst to be away

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours, A feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We

e pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods. And nature that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broodsYet even there a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June,

And the light whisper as their edges meetStrange that they fill not with their tranquil

tone

The spirit walking in their midst alone.

There's no contentment in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream;

We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;

Bird-like the imprisoned soul will lift its eye, And pine till it is hooded from the sky.

MARCH.

Britton.

He stands like a warder stout and strong,
In the open gate of the year,
He bloweth loud, and he bloweth long
A blast on the horn in his hands;
And it rolleth shrilly and clear,

Through the amber caves low under the waves,

And it rolleth along the lands.

The sprites of the fruits, and flowers, and leaves, They had long been out at play

With the spirits that rule the mellow sheaves,
In the crystalline palaces —

In the ether halls, no mortal sees-
In the gardens under the day;

But the stirring blast, that clarion cast,
Oh, it broke their holiday!

And they hurry home at their topmost speed,
Flurried and flush'd with the sudden need,
Sprinkling earth as they pass along
With a flood of color, and gush of song—

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