Memphis daily appeal. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1847-1886, 1872-09-10

Drop the pail reverensly over the hill,
Bid the sweet song OF the streamlet be still.
Cricket and katy-did, hush your sharp tome
Wood-iove re-echo your murmuring moan,
I Gold-laden h~oney-bee, cease your low hum,
Brown-crested pheasant, come muffie your
Nestle mid russell leaves, tiny heId-mouse.
Still your soft pulses" there's death in the
house"
Fold your wing, heron, beside the dark pool
Where the white lilies lie, fragrant and cool;
Droop your heads, waterfowl, quietly dream
Where the dark rYer-weeds noaJ on the
stream,
Whispering witch.hazsl. chant the low song,
Echo II, waves, in our mystical tongue,
Crouch in your reedy beds, moor-foWl and
Hush your wild clangor1' there 8 death in the
house."
Mute, the sof1 tinkle OF silver-tongued streams,
Quenehed the gay twinkle OF laughing sum
Faded the tints of the bright mountain how'rs,
Folded, the wings of the rainbOw-clad hours;
sleeping in shadows, its smiles and It's tears,
Silent, its whispers Of hopes or Of fears,
~Cniidhood's bright b~lossom-dream chaugeful
Sleeps meath the lids Of the azuTe-eyed May.
flushed the refrain The gay mountain-stream
Mute its Wild echoes, the gorges among,
silent the ripples that DER its rocks glide,
Withered the blossoms that laved in its udei
Faded the meadow, and sOmber its hue,
Scattered, the sweets Of its violets blue;
Thirsting drouth reigns through the dim au-
Toll the bell once, for the showers of May.
Gone n perfume of her tropical breath,
Fled the soft kiss OF her loye-laden mouth,
Quenchedtthe warm passion, the burning de-
sire,
Caught from the CLEAN Of her eyes LIQUID fire
Scentless and crushed as a gathered rose,
CrOwnless and scepterless, cold as white SHOWS,
Marble brow cleaning beneath the pale moon,
Pulseless and still lies the Passion-crowned
June.
Rustic the crumbling leaves, scentless and
scared,
Where the Giant of Battles his naughty
head reared,
Dead as the promises false Fortune told,
Lie the dry heaps of the Upright cloth of gold, -
shattered as heartstriugs by fierce PASSIONS
rush.,
Sleep the pale buds of the sweet " maiden's
blush
strike the chimes softly in low, rhythmic tune,
Toll the bell twice for the roses Of June.
Soft and serenely she sleeps with the dead,
Gather the harvests to pillow her head,
''Shout the glad tidings," the battle is won,
the amen DER a mission w~ell-done;
Bring the ripe vintage Of clustering vine,
Purple and golden, TO glisten and shine,
Gathered sheaves glowing with rich amber
Heap FOUND the pu~rple-draped bier of july.
Mountains lie bathed in a shadowy cloud,
Silvery mist-wreaths are weaving her shrOud,
flushed is the breath Of the INNER soft
sigh,
Darkened the CLEAN Of her clear u eye,
Swallowed her sunny smile, W~itchfnglY fair,
Faded the trail Of her bright golden hair
Night-winds of autumn, with wild, haunting
cry,
Toll the bell thrice, for the beams of July.
Death in the fields where the blossoms
entwine,
Death in the clouds where the golden beams
shine,
Death in the valley, and death on the hill,
Death in the means of the murmuring rill;
Sobbing and wailing in wind and in tide,
Sorrow and signing, for August has died;
From her long slumbe she waketh no more,
E-Iried for aye, on Eternity's shore.
Rustic, We autumn leaves, huttering down,
Drop from your branches all yellow and
brown,
Autumn clouds! troop to her burial day,
Drape the dim hilltop with purple and grey,
Round the dark pail the weird night-wind
shall walk,
Waters and woods of the dead beauty talk,
Choirs OF Nature! with lOwly bowed head,
Chant the sad requiem-"Summer is dead"
FOREST HOME, september L, 1872.