Then deep fell the drifting snow,
  And loud the wintry winds did blow,
  And all the flow’rs were buried low,
          Just like you, my brother.

  But now the sun is riding high,—­
  The busy bee comes humming by,
  And spring’s soft gales around us sigh;
          O come back, my brother.

  Your little rose-bush springs to view,
  Your daffodils and daisies too,
  And ev’rything comes back but you,
          My poor little brother.

  O, could I ope the grassy mound,
  With which your lovely form is bound,
  And break your slumber, so profound,
          My poor little brother.

  Then gentle mother’d cease to mourn,
  And speak to me in that sad tone;
  And pity me because alone;
          O, come back, my brother.

  And yet, I know, it cannot be,
  That thou wilt ever come to me;
  But I must shortly go to thee,
          My poor little brother.

  I know that thy once lovely form,
  Now feeds the cruel coffin worm,—­
  And that corruption doth deform
          All traces of my brother,

  I know that life will swiftly glide,—­
  That death’s bark floats upon the tide,
  And soon will lay me by your side,
          My dear buried brother.

  Then may our souls together reign,
  On yonder bright, aerial plain,
  And shout a loud, seraphic strain,
          In happiness, my brother.

The Twins

It was a sad day in autumn, pale, withering autumn, when a little group of friends collected round the cradle of an infant of a few weeks, who had tasted the cup of life, and now was turning seemingly disappointed away from the bitter portion.  The mild blue eyes were raised to heaven, and that heavenly angelic expression, so peculiar to expiring infancy rested upon his face, which was lovely in the extreme, though wasted by disease.  He was tenacious of life, and lingered long in the embrace of the pale messenger, although the eye was dim and the wrist pulseless.

The father, mother, sister, and brother, and grandmother, sat watching the quivering flame that would rally for a few moments, then wane again.  Near by sat the nurse, bearing upon her lap the little twin sister, who had her birth at the same hour with him, and who, like him too, was passing away.

How soon they wearied of life, those frail, gentle ones, and the angel came to bear them to a brighter, holier world, where the purity of their sinless spirits should remain untarnished by the blight and pollutions of earth.

We watched till the sun went down in the western sky, dim and shadowy, enshrined long before his setting by a yellow autumnal haze, that cast a melancholy subduing shade over the face of decaying nature that hung out her fading flowers and withered leaves, as a token of the sad change that was passing in her realm, while the evening breeze, as it swayed the branches of the trees, bearing many a leaf to the ground, and drifting them before his melancholy breath, seemed sighing a sad requiem over departed glory.