WHEN we muse o'er days departed,
Lights that shone but shine no more,
Friends of ours who long since started
O'er the sea without a shore;
Journeying on and journeying ever,
Their freed spirits wing their flight,
Ceasing in their progress never
Towards the fountain-head of light;
Oft we wish that they were near us,—
We might see the friends we love,—
Then there come these words to cheer us,
"Ye shall meet them all above."
When the sun's first ray approacheth,
Ushering in the noonday light;
When the noise of day encroacheth
On the silence of the night;
When the dreams depart that blest us
In the hours forever fled,—
In which friends long gone carest us,
Friends we number with the dead,—
Comes this thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them,
Ne'er shall see the friends ye love;
Voices say, "Ye shall be near them,
With them in the world above."
When within the grave's enclosure
Ye do drop the silent tear,
Tremble not at its disclosure,
Myriad spirits hover near.
Hark! they whisper, do ye hear not,
Mingling with your rising sighs,
Words that bid you hope, and fear not,
Angel-voices from the skies?
And as dust to dust returneth,—
That which held the gem you love,—
Thine afflicted spirit learneth
It will meet that gem above.
Thus whene'er a friend departeth
In my soul I know 't is right;
And, although the warm tear starteth,
As he passes from my sight,
I do know that him I cherish
Here on earth shall never die;
That, though all things else shall perish,
He shall live and reign on high.
And, that when a few hours more
Shall have passed, then those I love,
Who have journeyed on before,
I shall meet and greet above.
THE VILLAGE MYSTERY.
ABOUT fifty miles from a southern city, about five years ago, a most mysterious personage seemed to fall from the clouds into the midst of a circle of young ladies, whose hours and days were thenceforth busily employed in quizzing, guessing, pondering and wondering.
He was a tall, graceful-formed gentleman, wearing a professional-looking cloak, and buff pants, tightly strapped over boots of delicate make, polished up to the very highest capabilities of Day and Martin. He had no baggage; which fact led some wise-headed old ladies to report him to be a gentleman of leisure, a literary millionaire, it might be, who was travelling through "the States" for the purpose of picking up items for a book on "Ameriky." The old men wagged their heads, and looked most impenetrably mysterious. The young men became jealous. To be sure he was not superlatively handsome, but he had a foreign air, which was considerable among the girls; and his appearance indicated wealth, for his dress was of the first quality and cut. He had half a dozen glistening rings on his hands; he wore a breast-pin of dazzling brilliance; and every time he moved a chained lion could not have made more noise, and clatter, and show with his fetters, than he did with a massive double-linked chain, that danced and flirted upon his crimson vest.
Abby and Nelly, the belles of the place, had each had an eye upon the new comer, since he passed by the splendid mansion of their abode, casting a sly glance up to the open window at which they stood.
In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all the fashionable society of Greendale. He had drank tea with the "Commissioners," and walked out with their amiable daughters. He had visited the pastor, and had evinced great interest in the prosperity of the church. He had even exhorted in the conference-meeting, and had become so popular that some few, taking it for granted that so devout a man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking the old parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pulpit,—four hundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a donation-party's offerings. He had attended the sewing-circle, and made himself perfectly at home with everybody and everything. The young men's society for ameliorating the condition of the Esquimauxs and Hottentots had been favored with his presence; and, likewise, with a speech of five minutes long, which speech had, in an astonishingly short time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely framed.
The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked so much, and shed so many tears, and gave vent to so many pitiful exclamations, but with whom, however, he did not deign to associate, were filled with a prodigious amount of wonder at the lion and his adventures. They gathered at Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on the corner, and wondered and talked over the matter. The questions with them were, Who is he?-where did he come, and where is he going to? They would not believe all they had heard conjectured about him, and some few were so far independent as to hint of the possibility of imposition.
There were two who determined to find out, at all hazards, the name, history, come from and go to, of the mysterious guest; and, to accomplish their purpose, they found it necessary for them to go to Baltimore early the subsequent morning.
The morning came. After taking a measurement of the height, breadth and bulk of the foreigner, as also a mental daguerreotype of his personal appearance, they departed.
Having been very politely invited, it is no strange matter of fact that, just as the sun has turned the meridian, on the fifth of March, a young man is seen walking slowly upon the shady side of Butternut-street, Greendale. To him all eyes are directed. Boys stop their plays, and turn their inquisitive eyes towards the pedestrian. The loungers at Brim's tavern flock to the door, and gaze earnestly at him; while Bridget the house-maid, and Dennis the hostler, hold a short confab on the back stairs, each equally wondering whose "bairn" he can be.