Burlington Free Press

THE LYRE.

"He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced."

THE EARLY DEAD.

They go, a fresh and beautiful band,
To the sunny sky of the "spirit land;"
To the music soft of an angel choir,
They hymn their joy on a golden lyre;
Gladly, ah! gladly, they soar away,
As a bird uncaged, or a child at play.
They go while the rainbow of hope is fair,
Its arch unbroken by sin or care:
While the rosy tint of their life's young glow,
Is as bright as a sunbeam on beds of snow
And they pass as gently, as softly on,
As the snow flake melting, till all are gone
They go while untouched by the opening blast
Which withering time on the old hath cast;
While fancy painteth the amethyst hue
With the diamond glittering and blending through
As the nightly host in their mildest beam,
Or th' impassioned trust of the lover's dream.
They go when the tendrils of love entwine
Round the heart, untouched by the wintry wind :
While the spring hath nought in its early bloom
For its lovely one of despair or gloom;
While each balmy urn on the flowering strand
Sends forth rich odors through all the land.
They go ere the lattice on which they clung
Of its fairest and dearest hath lost not one;
Till lost to the bark is its guide and stay,
Tossing about on the trackless way;
They go while are mirrored their cherished forms
Which the stream of youth on its bosom warms.
They go—and why should they linger here
Outliving all gifts that are sweet and dear,
Till the crystal drop of the morning flies,
And life's fair stream at the fountain dries ?
Ah! mourn for the things that to earth are wed,
But not, ah mourn not the early dead.