FREDERIC MELLEN
SABBATH EVENING.
List! there is music in the air:
It is the sabbath evening bell,
Chiming the vesper hour of prayer,
O'er the mountain top and lowland dell.
And infancy and age are seen,
Slow winding o'er the church-yard green.
It is the eve of rest; the light
Still lingers on the moss-grown tower,
While to the drowsy ear of night,
Slowly it marks the evening hour.
'T is hush'd! and all is silent there,
Save the low, fervent voice of prayer.
And now far down the quiet vale,
Sweet hymnings on the air float by;
Hushing the whip-poor-will's sad wail
With its own plaintive melody.
They breathe of peace, like the sweet strains
That swept at night o'er Bethlehem's plains.
And heads are bow'd, as the low hymn
Steals through that gray and time-worn pile;
And the altar lights burn faint and dim,
In the long and moss-grown aisle.
And the distant foot-fall echoes loud,
Above that hush'd and kneeling crowd.
And now beneath the old elm's shade,
Where the cold moon-beams may not smile;
Bright flowers upon the graves are laid,
And sad tears shed unseen the while.
The last sweet gift affection brings,
To deck the earth to which it clings.
How beautiful those simple flowers
Strown o'er that silent spot still sleep;
Still wet with summer's gentle showers,
As if they too could feel and weep!
They fade and die; the wintry wind
Shall leave no trace of them behind!
The bright new moon hath set: the light
Is fading on the far blue hills;
And on the passing breeze of night,
The music of their thousand rills
Comes echoing through the twilight gray,
With the lone watch-dog's distant bay.
The crowd hath pass'd away; the prayer
And low breathed evening hymn are gone;
The cold mist only lingers there,
O'er the dark moss and mouldering stone.
And the stars shine brightly o'er the glen,
Where rest the quiet homes of men.
THE HERDSMAN'S GRAVE.
He sleeps beneath the larch tree's shade;
And kindly hands his cairn have made
Far up among the sunny hills,
Beside his own pure mountain rills;
Whose music, when the summer day
From the deep glens had pass'd away,
And from the far down village tower
The bell toll'd out the evening hour,
Would murmur round his moss-wreathed bed,
Its simple requiem o'er the dead.
It is a lonely grave—and here,
When the still summer eve draws near,
The eagle folds his dusky wing,
To list the storm's deep muttering
Far down among the mountain vales;
While o'er that verdant spot, the gales
Of evening stir the dark old pines;
And o'er the cloud's embattled lines,
The sun pours forth his last bright smile,
As if to bless that mouldering pile.
Long years have sped upon their flight,
And many a dark and weary night,
The cold rain-drops, with sullen dash,
Have swept the larch and mountain ash,
Since the first flow'rets bloom'd around,
The margin of that little mound.
It was a summer day—the bells,
From the deep mountain gorge and dells,
Were chiming on the morning breeze;
And 'neath the dark o'erhanging trees,
The muleteer sung on his way
Chanting his blithesome roundelay.
No tears were shed—no mutter'd prayer
Stole upward through the stilly air;
No flowers were strown—the mountain stream
Murmur'd his only requiem!
But when his native hills are bright
In the calm smile of summer's light;
And all the lowland woods are green,
By that lone grave sweet flowers are seen;
And travellers pause upon their way,
To list the birds' sad minstrelsy
From that old larch, and breathe a prayer,
For him who rests in silence there.
