While memory bids me weep thee,
    Nor thoughts nor words are free,
  The grief is fixed too deeply
    That mourns a man like thee.

F.G.  HALLECK.

The Valley of Unrest.

  Once it smiled a silent dell
  Where the people did not dwell;
  They had gone unto the wars,
  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
  Nightly, from their azure towers,
  To keep watch above the flowers,
  In the midst of which all day
  The red sunlight lazily lay. 
  Now each visitor shall confess
  The sad valley’s restlessness. 
  Nothing there is motionless,
  Nothing save the airs that brood
  Over the magic solitude. 
  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
  That palpitate like the chill seas
  Around the misty Hebrides! 
  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
  Uneasily, from morn to even,
  Over the violets there that lie
  In myriad types of the human eye,
  Over the lilies there that wave
  And weep above a nameless grave! 
  They wave:—­from out their fragrant tops
  Eternal dews come down in drops. 
  They weep:—­from off their delicate stems
  Perennial tears descend in gems.

E.A.  POE.

To the Fringed Gentian.

  Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
  And colored with the heaven’s own blue,
  That openest when the quiet light
  Succeeds the keen and frosty night: 

  Thou comest not when violets lean
  O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
  Or columbines, in purple dressed,
  Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.

  Thou waitest late and com’st alone,
  When woods are bare and birds are flown,
  And frosts and shortening days portend
  The aged year is near his end.

  Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
  Look through its fringes to the sky,
  Blue—­blue—­as if that sky let fall
  A flower from its cerulean wall.

  I would that thus, when I shall see
  The hour of death draw near to me,
  Hope, blossoming within my heart,
  May look to heaven as I depart.

W.C.  BRYANT.

The Crowded Street.

  Let me move slowly through the street,
    Filled with an ever-shifting train,
  Amid the sound of steps that beat
    The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

  How fast the flitting figures come! 
    The mild, the fierce, the stony face,—­
  Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
    Where secret tears have left their trace.

  They pass—­to toil, to strife, to rest;
    To halls in which the feast is spread;
  To chambers where the funeral guest
    In silence sits beside the dead.

  And some to happy homes repair,
    Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
  With mute caresses shall declare
    The tenderness they cannot speak.