But Rachel's voice no longer joins

The choral song at twilight's falling.

The winter sends his drenching shower,
And sweeps his howling blast around her,
But earthly storms possess no power

To break the slumber that hath bound her.

THE FIELD OF GILBOA.

THE sun of the morning looked forth from his throne, And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying: For the yell of the strife like the thunder had flown, And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.

And there lay the husband that lately was pressed

To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddyNow the claws of the vulture were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody.

And there lay the son of the widowed and sad,
Who yesterday went from her dwelling for ever—
Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had

On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver.

And there came the daughter, the desolate child,

To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild,

To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.

And there came the consort, that struggled in vain
To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her;
And there came the mother, that sunk 'mid the slain,
To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her.

O bloody Gilboa! a curse ever lie

Where the king and his people were slaughtered to

gether!

May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die,

Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither!

IO-MORRO W

TO-MORROW-mortal, boast not thou

Of time and tide that are not now!
But think in one revolving day
How earthly things may pass away!

To-day-while hearts with rapture spring
The youth to beauty's lip may cling;
To-morrow-and that lip of bliss
May sleep unconscious of his kiss.

To-day the blooming spouse may press
Her husband in a fond caress;
To-morrow-and the hands that pressed
May wildly strike her widowed breast.

To-day-the clasping babe may drain The milk-stream from its mother's vein; To-morrow-like a frozen rill,

That bosom-current may be still.

To-day-thy merry heart may feast

On herb, and fruit, and bird and beast:

To-morrow-spite of all thy glee,

The hungry worms may feast on thee.

To-morrow! mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day,
That 'en thyself may pass away.

MORTALITY.

Он, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
Like a fast flitting meteor, a fast flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willows 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 child whom 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 dwelling 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 who the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest who 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 to the steep.
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like 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 and the weed.

That wither 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 things that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun.
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.