158 JAMES H. PERKINS. [1830-40. SPIRITUAL PRESENCE. It is a beautiful belief, Tliat ever round our head Are hovering, on noiselesss wing, Tiie spirits of the dead. It is a beautiful belief. When ended our career. That it will be our ministry To watch o'er others here ; To lend a moral to the flower; Breathe wisdom on the wind ; To hold commune, at night's pure noon, With the imprison'd mind ; To bid the mourners cease to mourn, The trembling be forgiven ; To bear away, from ills of clay, The infant to its heaven. Ah ! when delight was found in life, And joy in every breath, I cannot tell how terrible The mystery of death. But now the past is bright to me, And all the future clear ; For 'tis my faith, that after death I still shall Imger here. THE MAIDEN'S GRAVR He had a single child ; and she Was beautiful to that degree. That not a boor the country round, But shook for very awe and fear. And cast his eyes upon the ground, Whenever she drew near ; The soul that stu-red her feeble limb Was such a giant mind to him. And yet she was the kindest thing, It seems to me, that ever hved ; Nor summer's heat, nor winter's cold. Could keep her from the sick man's side ; With fearless step she trod the wold — The mountain torrent she defied — And if she found that death, indeed. Had grasped him with his clammy hand. Then 'twas her joy to bid him speed, Unerring to that better land. With lines of light she drew the bowers, In which the blessed shall repose ; And told, in music, of the hours, When from error, and the woes That cluster round each footstep here. We shall go up from sphere to sphere — Where mind of man hath never flown. Nor foot of seraph ever trod ; Beyond the ever-living fount — Bej^ond the dim, mysterious mount — Beyond the last archangel's throne, Into the very presence of our God. At length we missed her pleasant voice : It was the spring-tide of the year ; And wdien we broke the clotted soil. And scattered the mysterious grain, She did not come to share our toil; And in the village there were some That whispered, that she could not come. Alas ! she never came again. She died. And when the truth w^as known. There came upon our vale a gloom — Upon our sunny vale, a chill — As though the shadows of the tomb Had clothed each neighboring hill. We could not think that she w^as dead : How could she die — that perfect being — And moulder into powerless dust ? But it was so ; we dug her grave, And laid her by her mother's side. This is the spot. The rank weeds wave Upon it since the father died. But still, along the shore, the surge Chanteth her melancholy dirge ; And still the glow-worm's funeral light Above her burns ; and still, you see, Droopeth the solemn willow tree ;
