Him have we seen the greenwood side along,
While o'er the heath we hied, our labor done,
Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song,

With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun.

And in some of the first editions, immediately before "The Epitaph," was the following stanza:

There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found;
The red-breast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

Eyes which the preacher could not school,
By wayside graves are raised;

And lips say, "God be pitiful,”

Who ne'er said, "God be prais'd."

Be pitiful, O God!

The tempest stretches from the steep
The shadow of its coming-

The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,

As help were in the human

Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind
We spirits tremble under!

Mrs. Browning.

The plague runs festering through the town, -
And never a bell is tolling;

The plague of gold strikes far and near, —
And deep and strong it enters:

This purple chimar which we wear,

Makes madder than the centaur's.

Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange; We cheer the pale gold-diggers—

Each soul is worth so much on 'Change,

And marked, like sheep, with figures.

Be pitiful, O God!

The curse of gold upon the land,

The lack of bread enforces

The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,
Like more of Death's White Horses!
The rich preach "rights" and future days,
And hear no angel scoffing:

The poor die mute-with starving gaze

On corn-ships in the offing.

The happy children come to us,

And look up in our faces:

They ask us-Was it thus, and thus,
When we were in their places?

We cannot speak: - we see anew
The hills we used to live in;

And feel our mother's smile press through

The kisses she is giving.

We sit on hills our childhood wist,
Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding:
The sun strikes, through the farthest mist,
The city's spire to golden.

The city's golden spire it was,

When hope and health were strongest, But now it is the churchyard grass,

We look upon the longest.

We have no strength for crying:

No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine,
Look up and triumph rather-

Lo! in the depth of God's Divine,

The Son adjures the Father

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift, fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed;
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of Rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;

-

And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn:

The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away with the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been:
We see the same sights our fathers have seen:
We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling:
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumber will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of the eye, 'tis the draught of a breath.
From the blossom of health, to the paleness of death.