e
Upon his clustering hair!"

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laugh'd
In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

* * * * *

=_366._= UNSEEN SPIRITS.

The shadows lay along Broadway,--
'Twas near the twilight tide,--
And slowly there, a lady fair
Was waiting in her pride.
Alone walked she, yet viewlessly
Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And honor charmed the air,
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair;
For all God ever gave to her,
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare,
From lovers warm and true;
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo.
Ah, honored well, are charms to sell,
When priests the selling do!

Now, walking there, was one more fair--
A slight girl, lily pale,
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail;
'Twixt want and scorn, she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way,
And the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway.

* * * * *

=_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-._= (Manual, pp. 503, 505, 519, 531.)

=_367._= LINES TO RESIGNATION.

There is no flock, however watched and tended
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howso'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! these severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps,
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition.
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,--the child of our affection,--
But gone unt