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190   MRS E. C. KINNEY.

Or the soft melancholy glide
Of some deep stream through glen and glade,
Because 'tis not the thunder made
By ocean's heaving tide!

The hallowed lilies of the field
In glory are arrayed,
And timid, blue-eyed violets yield
Their fragrance to the shade;
Nor do the way-side flowers conceal
Those modest charms that sometimes steal
Upon the weary traveller's eyes
Like angels, spreading for his feet
A carpet filled with odours sweet,
And decked with heavenly dyes.

Thus let the affluent Soul of Song—
That all with flowers adorns—
Strew life's uneven path along,
And hide its thousand thorns:
Oh, many a sad and weary heart,
That treads a noiseless way apart,
Has blessed the humble poet's name,
For fellowship refined and free,
In meek wild-flowers of poesy,
That asked no higher fame!

And pleasant as the water-fall
To one by deserts bound—
Making the air all musical
With cool, inviting sound—
Is oft some unpretending strain
Of rural song, to him whose brain
Is fevered in the sordid strife



MRS. E. C. KINNEY.   191

That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,
While moving on in caravan
Across the sands of Life.

Yet not for these alone he sings;
The poet's breast is stirred
As by the spirit that takes wings
And carols in the bird!
He thinks not of a future name,
Nor whence his inspiration came,
Nor whither goes his warbled song;
As Joy itself delights in joy—
His soul finds life in its employ,
And grows by utterance strong.


MOUNT HOPE CEMETERY, ROCHESTER.

COME hither, ye who fear the grave, and call it lone and drear,
Who deem the burial-place a spot to waken grief and fear;
Oh! come and climb with me this mount where sleep the silent dead,
And through these winding gravel-walks with noiseless footsteps tread.
Stoop down and pluck the fragrant bud, just opening fresh above
The peaceful bed where slumbers one who died in youth and love;
Smell the pure air, so redolent with breath of summer flowers,
And take this sprig of evergreen, a pledge for future hours.

See yonder river sparkling through the foliage of the grove,
How gracefully its course doth bend—how still its waters move
Sit 'neath the branches of this tree which spread their grateful shade
To screen a spot for musing thought, or holy converse made.