But suddenly his eye grows bright, Lit by unearthly fires; He gazes upward with delight,— The angels strike their lyres.

The music falls upon his ear, In sweet seraphic strains; Nought earthly can detain him here,— His spirit bursts its chains,

Ossian, old Scotia's ancient bard, The genius of the past; Saw ghosts upon the fleecy clouds, And heard them in the blast.

The spirits of the mighty dead, That were in battle slain, Came by his master spirit led, Back to this earth again,

Their shadowy forms, in mist arrayed, Rode on the drifting clouds; The fork'd lightnings round them play'd, And thunders echo'd loud.

Fiercely they shook their airy spears, And clos'd in deadly fight Shriek'd, as in agony and fear, Then vanish'd from the sight.

Thus did old Scotia's ancient bard, Hold converse with the dead; "Back in the dim and shadowy past; Those phantoms all had fled."

There let them rest; years have rolled on, Down the dark tide of time; Our loftier faith is built upon A structure more sublime.

We know if angel spirits come From other worlds to this, They are sent to guide us to our home, Where God our Father is.



The Widow's Home

Alas, my home is lonely,— They've parted from my side; My husband in the church yard's laid, My daughter is a bride.

She's stood beside the altar, And breath'd that solemn vow, From which she may not falter, Till life is ended now.

But, oh, my home is lonely,— I miss them by the hearth; When evening shadows gather 'round, I miss their social mirth.

I miss the glances of the eye, The old familiar tone,— And feel indeed, the widow's home Is desolate and lone.

And when we gather round the board, There's each one's vacant chair; And, oh, I miss them every hour— And miss them everywhere.

But still there must be changes, While time is stealing by, Alternate sun and shadow Will flit across the sky.



To Mrs. J. C. Bucklin, by Her Father.

My child, why weepest thou? Are these drawn lines of sorrow alone thy garlands? Why this dreary awe, this languishing on all around you? But hush, these are the foot-prints of Death; he has indeed been with you in his uncertain rounds. The deep, reposing influences indicate his path. I will not dare to question a mother's love, so strange and inexplicable in power, and so mysterious in operation, gentle as the breathing of the memory, ungovernable as the whirlwind in its frenzy, tender as the angel of sympathy, yet stronger than the bands of Death, it is painful to witness such a cloud of sorrow resting on one so young as you, without an atheistic questioning, the all-wise purposes of our Father in heaven.

Your own lovely babe you so fondly adored, Death's torn from the heart of her mother, So full was your soul of a mother's deep love, You would gladly have died to restore her. Poor fragile, fading, short-lived flow'r, She was bright and lovely for an hour.



To The Reader.

And now, courteous reader, perchance thou art weary with thy wanderings, and the flowers we have gathered may appear withered to thee, and devoid of beauty or fragrance, and the peep into memory's inner chambers may not have afforded thee the pleasure that I have derived from the survey. If so, farewell, I will intrude no more upon thy time or patience. The curtain has fallen, the dim, misty curtain, and memory has turned her golden key, closed her portfolio, and sat down with folded hands, to brood over her hoarded treasures, placing each in its proper place, to be brought forward again at her mandate, to beguile, perchance, other weary midnight hours with their magic spell. The past cannot be redeemed, and the future is hid in uncertainty; but the present, the golden present is ours, and while our little bark is floating upon the stream of time, let us improve the precious moments as they fly, and spend them in a cultivation of the best affections of the human mind. The mind, that boundless ocean of human thought that is placed within each individual, stretching on throughout the ceaseless ages of eternity. But there must come a solemn time to all who live. Death is upon our track, and will surely soon overtake us, and our decaying bodies must be hid forever from sight beneath the clods of the valley: but these minds shall then live, and happy they who, by a cultivation of the best principles of our nature, have an antepast of heaven while upon earth.

May this be our happy case, gentle reader, if we meet not again on earth, we shall meet in heaven, "for we must all stand before the judgment seat of Christ." I have spread out before you the secret musings of many a midnight hour, and I feel that I am responsible for what I have written. May God grant forgivness for the wrong. And thus we part, gentle reader, to toss yet a little longer upon the stream of time, ere its waves and its billows pass over us forever.

"When midnight o'er the moonless skies, Her shades of mimic death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise; And nought is wakeful but the dead. No bloodless shape my path pursues; No shiv'ring ghost my couch annoys, Visions more sad my fancy views, Visions of dear departed joys,— The shade of youthful hope is there."

THE END