Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude
swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon.

The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world

kings,

with

The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,

vales

-the

Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods- rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured
round all,

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on

fire

The heavens with falling thunder-bolts, or fill,

With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the
woods

And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies
by?

Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath

Of the mad unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives.

JUNE

I GAZED upon the glorious sky

And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
"T were pleasant that, in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tunc,

And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
A cell within the frozen mould,

A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled,

While fierce the tempests beatAway! I will not think of these Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,

Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.

There through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird.