A voice speaks to my soul to-day
Of long forgotten years.

And yet the vision in my heart,

In a few hours more,

Will fade into the silent past,
Silently as before.

ILLUSION.

HERE the golden corn is bending,
And the singing reapers pass,

Where the chestnut woods are sending
upon the grass,

Leafy showers

The blue river onward flowing

Mingles with its noisy strife,

The murmur of the flowers growing,

And the hum of insect life.

I, from that rich plain was gazing

Towards the snowy mountains high, Who their gleaming peaks were raising Up against the purple sky.

And the glory of their shining,
Bathed in clouds of rosy light,
Set my weary spirit pining

For a home so pure and bright!

So I left the plain, and weary,

Fainting, yet with hope sustained, Toiled through pathways long and dreary, Till the mountain top was gained.

Lo! the height that I had taken,
As so shining from below,

Was a desolate, forsaken

Region of perpetual snow.

I am faint, my feet are bleeding,
All my feeble strength is worn,
In the plain no soul is heeding,
I am here alone, forlorn.

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Lights are shining, bells are tolling,

In the busy vale below;

Near me night's black clouds are rolling,
Gathering o'er a waste of snow.

So I watch the river winding
Through the misty fading plain,
Bitter are the tear-drops blinding,
Bitter useless toil and pain-
Bitterest of all the finding

That my dream was false and vain!

A VISION.

LOOMY and black are the cypress trees,
Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.
The long grass waveth, the tombs are

white,

And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight.

Silent is all save the dropping rain,

When slowly there cometh a mourning train
The lone churchyard is dark and dim,
And the mourners raise a funeral hymn :

"Open, dark grave, and take her;
Though we have loved her so,

Yet we must now forsake her,

Love will no more awake her:

(Oh, bitter woe!)

Open thine arms and take her

To rest below!

;

"Vain is our mournful weeping,

Her gentle life is o'er;

Only the worm is creeping

Where she will soon be sleeping,

For evermore

Nor joy nor love is keeping

For her in store!"

Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,
And drearily wave in the chill night breeze.
The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue,
Where the trembling stars are shining through.

Slowly across the gleaming sky,

A crowd of white angels are passing by. Like a fleet of swans they float along, Or the silver notes of a dying song.

Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise, Fading away up the purple skies.

But hush! for the silent glory is stirred, By a strain such as earth has never heard:

"Open, O Heaven! we bear her,
This gentle maiden mild,
Earth's griefs we gladly spare her,
From earthly joys we tear her,

Still undefiled;

And to thine arms we bear her,

Thine own, thy child.

"Open, O Heaven! no morrow
Will see this joy o'ercast,

No pain, no tears, no sorrow,
Her gentle heart will borrow;

Sad life is past;

Shielded and safe from sorrow,

At home at last."