15 AUGUST 1874, Page 14

POETRY.

VOICES OF THE DEAD. A FEW snow-patches on the mountain-side, A few white foam-flakes from the ebbing tide, A few remembered words of malice spent, The record of some dead man's ill intent,—

They cannot hurt us, all their sting is gone, Their hour of cold and bitterness is done ; Yet deepest snows and fiercest lashing seas Bring not such cold or bitter thoughts as these.

A few soiled lilies dropped by childish hands, A few dried orange-blooms from distant lands, A few remembered smiles of wine lost friend,

Few words of love some dear dead fingers penned,—

They are not beautiful for love to see, And death's pale presence seems in them to be ; Yet never living blooms, most fresh and gay, Fill us with thoughts of love so sweet as they. F. W. B.