You know the spot, where three black trees,
Lift up their branches fell,
And moaning, ceaseless as the seas,
Still seem, in every passing breeze,
The deed of blood to tell.

They named him mad, and laid his bones
Where holier ashes lie;
Yet doubt not that his spirit groans
In hell's eternity.

But, lo! night, closing o'er the earth,
Infects our thoughts with gloom;
Come, let us strive to rally mirth
Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth
In some more cheerful room.




THE WIFE'S WILL.

Sit still--a word--a breath may break
(As light airs stir a sleeping lake)
The glassy calm that soothes my woes--
The sweet, the deep, the full repose.
O leave me not! for ever be
Thus, more than life itself to me!