The Curfew tolls the Knell of parting Day, The lowing Herd wind slowly o'er the Lea, The Plowman homeward plods his weary Way, And leaves the World to Darkness & to me.
No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his Frailties from their dread Abode, (There they alike in trembling Hope repose) The Bosom of his Father, & his God.
In yonder mill I rested, And sat me down to look Upon the wheel's quick glimmer. And on the flowing brook.
As in a dream, before me, The saw, with restless play, Was cleaving through a fir-tree Its long and steady way.
The tree through all its fibres With living motion stirred, And, in a dirge-like murmur, These solemn words I heard--
Oh, thou, who wanderest hither, A timely guest thou art! For thee this cruel engine Is passing through my heart.
When soon, in earth's still bosom, Thy hours of rest begin, This wood shall form the chamber Whose walls shall close thee in.
Four planks--I saw and shuddered-- Dropped in that busy mill; Then, as I tried to answer, At once the wheel was still.
So changes mortal Life with fleeting years; A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring The timely insight that can temper fears, And from vicissitude remove its sting; While Faith aspires to seats in that domain Where joys are perfect--neither wax nor wane. WORDSWORTH.
It was a warm, cloudy, sultry summer morning--scarcely a breath of air stirred the clematis and woodbine blossoms that peeped in and clustered around the breakfast-room window, greeting us with fresh fragrance; but on this morning no pleasant air breathed sighingly over them, and they looked drooping and faded. I was visiting my friend Effie Morris, who resided in a pleasant country village, some twenty or thirty miles from my city home. We were both young, and had been school-girl friends from early childhood. The preceding winter had been our closing session at school, and we were about entering our little world as women. Effie was an only daughter of a widowed mother. Possessing comfortable means, they lived most pleasantly in their quiet romantic little village. Effie had stayed with me during the winters of her school-days, while I had always returned the compliment by spending the summer months at her pleasant home. Her mother was lovely both in mind and disposition, and though she had suffered much from affliction, she still retained youthful and sympathizing feelings. Effie was gentle and beautiful, and the most innocent, unsophisticated little enthusiast that ever breathed. She had arrived at the age of seventeen, and to my certain knowledge had never felt the first heart-throb; never had been in love. In vain had we attended the dancing-school balls, and little parties. A host of boy-lovers surrounded the little set to which we belonged, and yet Effie remained entirely heart-whole. She never flirted, never sentimentalized with gentlemen, and she was called cold and matter-of-fact, by those who judged her alone by her manner; but one glance in her soft, dove-like eyes, it seems to me, should have set them a doubting. I have seen those expressive eyes well up with tears when together we would read some old story or poem--