ASHES OF ROSES. 
“ ’Tis noon,—the little shepherdess doth watch her flock at play, 
And thanks the gladsome summer for its best and brightest day; 
From time to time her happy thoughts in simple song she weaves, 
And twines from out her tiny hands her garland of green leaves: 
a ‘How green the grass is growing, and the flowers how bright they bloom; 
The stream shall be my looking-glass—the dell my tiring-room; 
And yon, amid the mountains, where my eye cannot see, 
Oh! is there not a winsome youth who kindly thinks of me?’ 
“And now, across the noontide sky, a cloud its shadow flings; 
Still, in the gladness of her heart, the little maiden sings 
A song of plaintive melody,—a song of olden time,— 
While softly to her voice keeps tune the distant village chime. 
“But now, from out the dark, thick cloud, the tempest’s might hath rushed; 
Leaps the wild lightning, and the song upon her lips is hushed; 
She throws back her bright tresses, for the air is close and warm, 
And looks with quiet rapture on the glory of the storm. 
“ Then, from the darkness of the skies, a voice of terror spake, 
And to its fearful message bade the mountain echoes wake— 
Another, and a louder crash, more fearful than the rest! 
The maiden bent her head, and clasped her hands upon her breast. 
“Another! and she raised the lustrous beauty of her eye, 
And its steadfast look said—‘ Father! I do not fear to die.’ 
Another! and with gentlest sigh—with softest sigh of prayer— 
The child had breathed her happy soul upon the summer air! 
“And from the mountain’s rugged breast there burst a wailing wild; 
They sang their own rude lullaby, and sorrowed o’er their child. 
But deep from out their strongholds a sadder voice shall come 
When the sweet, blighted flower is borne unto her silent home. 
“The anger of the storm is spent,—’tis sunshine on the plain; 
It plays around the form of her it may not warm again; 
And what, of all it looks upon, hath such a tender grace 
As that fair head laid low for aye, and that sweet upturned face. 
