POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALBERT LAIGHTON 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 BROWN, TAGGARD & CHASE. 
 
 PORTSMOUTH: JOSEPH HILLER FOSTER. 
 
 1859. 
 
T6a\'\ 
 
 
 Entered, necording to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by 
 
 Albert Laighton, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of New Hampshire. 
 
 7. 
 
 ^ "J^f^ 
 
 KI.KCTKOTYI'ED AT THE 
 BOSTOX STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 GEO. r. RAND & AVERY. 
 
i/r 
 
 geiritatioiu 
 
 ANDREW P. PEABODY, D.D. 
 
 These few and simple flowers, that, hidden, grew 
 Around my heart, I bind and offer you. 
 You can but take them, they may soon decay, 
 Then idly you may fling them all away ; 
 Or, haply, should they joy and fragrance give, 
 Or leave some gentle memory that will live 
 When I'm forgot, or far away, or dead, 
 Then not in vain are their faint odors shed. 
 
 Portsmouth, N. H., 1859. 
 
 (3) 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Beauty, 9 
 
 The Birth of Light, 29 
 
 The Missing Ships, 34 
 
 At Night, , ... 39 
 
 Found Dead, 41 
 
 Autumn, 44 
 
 New England, 45 
 
 In the Woods, 46 
 
 Songs at Midnight, 48 
 
 Flowers, 52 
 
 The Tress of Hair, 53 
 
 To MY Soul, 56 
 
 Oak and Vine, 58 
 
 The Chimes, 61 
 
 Dedication Ode, 62 
 
 The Household Pet, 64 
 
 The Breath of Spring, 66 
 
 In the Starlight, 68 
 
 (5) 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 The Summer Shower, 70 
 
 My Native River, 73 
 
 The Midnight Voice, 75 
 
 May, 77 
 
 Joe, 79 
 
 In Memoriam, 82 
 
 The Necropolis, . . . c . ... 85 
 
 Flora Bell, . 87 
 
 Ebb and Flow, • . 89 
 
 May-Flowers, 91 
 
 The Veiled Grief, 93 
 
 The Pauper's Prayer, . . • . ... 95 
 
 The Dead, 97 
 
 An Invocation, 99 
 
 The Love of God, 101 
 
 A Memorial, 104 
 
 The Phantom, • . 106 
 
 An Autumn Thought, 107 
 
 The Sunbeam, 109 
 
 To a Bigot, Ill 
 
 Hymn, 113 
 
 Gone, 115 
 
 The Two Worlds, 116 
 
 Tears, 117 
 
 Dedication Hymn, 119 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 The Ballad of Ruth Blay, 121'^ 
 
 Song or the Skaters, ....... 127 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 October, 129 
 
 Night, 131 
 
 Death of a Child, 132 
 
 To J. G. W., . . •. . . . . o , 134 
 
BEAUTY.* 
 
 I SING of Beauty ! not of that which lies 
 Before me now, that gleams in woman's eyes 
 And blushes on her cheek, — that were a 
 
 theme 
 To fill the measure of a poet's dream ! 
 Not of the matchless tints that painters give 
 The pictures of old masters, that yet live. 
 Kept sacred from the wrecks and spoils of 
 
 Time ; 
 Claude's perfect sunsets, Rafaelle's shapes 
 
 sublime, 
 Correggio's landscapes, and madonnas fair. 
 With soul-entrancing eyes and shining hair ; 
 
 * Extracts from a poem delivered before the United Lit- 
 erary Societies at Bowdoin College, August 3, 1858. 
 
 (9) 
 
10 BEAUTY. 
 
 Not of the cold, calm loveliness that lies 
 In marble forms, that stand before our eyes 
 The white ideals of the sculptor's brain ; 
 Not of the triumphs won in Art's domain, 
 But of that beauty stamped with Heaven's 
 
 own seal. 
 That angels blessed, and day and night re- 
 
 A'Cal, 
 That like a living presence fills the skies, 
 And everywhere around our pathway lies. 
 When into darkness God stretched forth his 
 
 hand, 
 And out of chaos, at his high command, 
 This lower world in perfect order stood. 
 Arrayed in robes of light, and " all was good," 
 With shouts of joy the heavenly arches rang. 
 And all the morning stars together sang. 
 Shall man not join the strain, immortal man, 
 For whom He formed this fair and wondrous 
 
 plan ? 
 
BEAUTY. 11 
 
 Shall Nature sing and he alone be mute, 
 And show no nobler passion than the brute ? 
 
 How many varied scenes this world displays 
 To fill the heart with joy, the lips with praise ! 
 Go wliere we may and Beauty follows too, 
 With radiant smiles, and shapes forever new. 
 She haunts the spring beneath a fairy's guise, 
 With unbound golden hair and azure eyes ; 
 A wreath of violets in each dainty hand, 
 And round her sunny brow an emerald band ; 
 While all day long she strays o'er hill and glen, 
 Through leafy bowers, amid the homes of men ; 
 And when night falls, from out the echoing dells. 
 The lilies ring for her their crystal bells, 
 And in the forest's depths she dreams till morn, 
 Waked by the music of the wild-bee's horn. 
 
 She reigns a queen in Summer ; on a throne 
 Of amethyst, with full-blown roses strown 
 
12 BEAUTY. 
 
 About her feet, slie sits in regal state ; 
 Millions of tiny beings on her wait, 
 With shining wings, and ever to her praise 
 With happy hearts sing their melodious lays. 
 
 She comes to Autumn, an enchantress rare. 
 With trailing robes of gold ; and as in air 
 She waves her crimson wand, the ripened 
 
 sheaves 
 Gather with rustling banners ; on the leaves 
 A rain of glory falls ; and in the skies 
 Cloud pictures rise at sunset, tinged with dyes 
 That Heaven alone displays to mortal eyes : 
 Calm lakes of amber gemmed with purple 
 
 isles ; 
 Gold-crested mountains, through whose long 
 
 defiles 
 We seem to see the angels come and go 
 With harps of light, and white wings waving 
 
 slow. 
 
BEAUTY. 13 
 
 She roams an artist o'er the winter world, 
 Whose pencil fair, with frozen dews impearled. 
 Paints fairy pictures on the whidow panes ; 
 Of time-worn castles, groves, and towering 
 
 fanes ; 
 Of grottoes overarched by blossoming trees, 
 And stately ships becalmed in silver seas ; 
 Of chasms deep, by cobweb bridges spanned, 
 That lead to mountains bright with pearly 
 
 sand. 
 Whose crystal peaks, touched by the morning 
 
 sun, 
 In silence fall, and vanish one by one. 
 
 Climb earth's most holy fanes, the mountain 
 
 peaks. 
 And there her siren voice sublimely speaks ; 
 Stand on some rocky strand that ocean laves. 
 And watch the long procession of the waves, 
 
14 BEAUTY. 
 
 As one by one along their sapphire way, 
 With measured step they come with wreaths 
 
 of spray ; 
 Or mark the Storm-king as with deafening roar 
 He hunts the billows thundering to the shore I 
 Or go in fancy to the mystic deeps 
 That plummet never reached, where Silence 
 
 keeps 
 Eternal watch ; roam through the fairy bowers 
 Festooned with mosses, — those perennial 
 
 flowers 
 That blossom in the peaceful gardens there, 
 And Naiads twine amid their flowing hair, — 
 Or stoop and take the wreathed shell that lies 
 Close at thy feet ; behold its splendid dyes, 
 That Heaven's own bow of light almost eclipse ; 
 List to the whisperings of its parted lii)S, 
 As if some happy spirit of the sea 
 Filled all its pearly halls with melody — 
 And tell me, did not Beauty walk with thee ? 
 
 J 
 
BEAUTY. 
 
 Let Dryads lead thee through the shrouded 
 
 wood, 
 Beside their sylvan haunts, where Solitude 
 Sits crowned with wild-flowers ; tread the long, 
 
 hushed aisles, 
 Across whose emerald floors the sunlight smiles 
 Like God's own blessing ; and if there thy 
 
 breast, 
 That vainly sighed for some sweet dream 
 
 of rest. 
 Forgets its care, and shadows leave thy brain, 
 Know that the hand of Beauty soothed thy 
 
 pain. 
 
 Leave the vast city with its noisy crowds. 
 And watch the quiet glory of the clouds ; 
 Golden at dawn, pallid as ghosts at noon. 
 Gorgeous at evening, drifting by the moon 
 Like icebergs in a sea of misty light. 
 Silent and calm, and piloted by Night. 
 
16 BEAUTY. 
 
 Go forth when Morning with its key of light 
 Unlocks the dusky portals of the night, 
 And watch the Day-king, throned in majesty, 
 Trace out a shining pathway o'er the sea, 
 While startled shadows from the mountains flee. 
 And radiant floods pour down upon the plain. 
 And Earth looks up to bless his cheering 
 reign. 
 
 Or lift to Heaven, at night, thy wondering eyes. 
 And read the starry language of the skies ; 
 See Cassiopea in her regal chair, 
 The golden trail of Berenice's Hair ; 
 The Northern Crown, whose jewels far outshine 
 All earthly gems, and gleam with light divine ; 
 The Pleiades, and Lyra's shining strings ; 
 The Silver Swan, the Dove with outspread 
 
 wings ; 
 The Twins, that tread their path with one desire, 
 And great Orion with his belt of fire ! 
 
BEAUTY. 17 
 
 Or turn from these and watch the Northern 
 
 Lights 
 With jewelled feet ascend the heavenly heights ; 
 AVhile with fantastic shapes they haunt the 
 
 brain — 
 A sky of amber streaked with silver rain ; 
 A blaze of glory, Heaven's resplendent fires ; 
 A temple gleaming with a thousand spires ; 
 A sea of light that laves a shore of stars ; 
 The gates of Heaven, swift-rolling, fiery cars ; 
 A golden pulse, quick beating through the 
 
 night ; 
 Contending armies mailed in armor bright ; 
 A gauzy curtain drawn by unseen hands. 
 Night's gorgeous drapery looped with starry 
 
 bands ; 
 Yast, burning cities, that lie far away ; 
 Blushes on Nature's face — pale ghosts of day ; 
 A boundless prairie swept by phantom fire ; 
 The vibrant strings of some gigantic lyre ; 
 
18 BEAUTY. 
 
 Emblazoned chariots ever skyward driven ; 
 God's finger writing in the book of heaven ; 
 Tlie flaming banner of the North unfurled, 
 The mystery that dares a boasting world ! 
 
 Far from the city's din a spot I knew, 
 Where in its pride a stately elm tree grew ; 
 I loved it well, and oft, when far away, 
 Weary and restless with the toils of day, 
 I thought of it ; I saw the children play 
 Beneath its shade ; I heard their shouts of joy, 
 And wished — vain wish ! — I was again a boy. 
 It whispered to me of the woods and streams ; 
 It rustled through the quiet of my dreams. 
 Making the night Arcadia ; ever fair 
 (Standing with giant arms outstretched in air) 
 It seemed to me ; whether I watched the 
 
 Spring 
 Touch it with light and bloom, or Summer fling 
 
BEAUTY. 19 
 
 Her garlands dark and dewy o'er its form, 
 That nobly braved the fury of the storm, 
 Or Autumn tinge its leaves with amber dye, 
 Or Winter leave its branches bare and high. 
 Pencilled like veins against the cold, gray sky, 
 Or wreathed with snow, or hung with icy gems. 
 Kissed by the sun, and fit for diadems. 
 
 0, when I think how many close their eyes 
 To all the beauty that around them lies, 
 Dazzled by gold, misled by fashion's glare ; 
 When I behold the pallid brows of care 
 That ache in factory rooms from dawn till 
 
 night. 
 Shut out from every pleasant sound and sight ; 
 And when I read with shame of women fair, 
 In crowded cities, driven to despair. 
 Who labor night and day, half paid, half fed. 
 While little children cry to them for bread, — 
 
20 BEAUTY. 
 
 I do not wonder that the doors of sm 
 Stand open wide, and thousands enter in ! 
 
 Christian men ! would ye do more to see 
 Christ's doctrine lived in all its purity, 
 Heed Beauty's holy voices ; let the air 
 Fan fevered cheeks and calm the pulse of 
 
 care ; 
 Give men more time to breathe and ponder o'er 
 Great Nature's works ; pay to the toiling poor 
 Their honest claims, and hush their pitying 
 
 cries, 
 And let earth's glory cheer their weary eyes. 
 Preach from your pulpits of the love of God, 
 That speaks to us forever from the sod ; 
 Plant in your prison yards the sinless flowers. 
 There let the captive pass his weary hours ; 
 They may bring manhood back, and fill his 
 
 licart 
 With holy thoughts that never will depart ; 
 
BEAUTY. 21 
 
 Sooner than dungeon bolt or cankering chain 
 They'll turn his feet to virtue's path again. 
 
 A sceptic once, for treason doomed to dwell 
 
 Within the precincts of a gloomy cell, 
 
 Wrote on his dungeon wall these words of 
 
 scorn : 
 " All things in nature of blind Chance were 
 
 born." 
 The changing seasons as they come and go 
 With varied pomp ; the ocean's ebb and flow ; 
 The star-fires burning on the steeps of night, 
 Unqueuched by time ; the floods of golden 
 
 hght 
 That flow in silence from the fount of day, 
 Unfettered as the ages roll away, 
 Baptizhig earth and heaven, — in these he saw 
 No riding hand, no high and perfect law. 
 But in tlie courtyard as he walked one day. 
 To while the long and tedious hours away. 
 
22 BEAUTY. 
 
 A little plant before his careless sight, 
 Lifting its tendrils to the air and light, 
 Spoke to the captive's soul ; its fragile form 
 He slieltered from the rude wind and the storm ; 
 And as beneath the gentle rain and dew, 
 In strength, and grace, and symmetry it grew, 
 Each leaf he counted on the mystic tree. 
 Till it became to him Hope's rosary. 
 And while he watched the swelling buds unfold 
 Tlieir fragrant leaves of purple ringed with gold. 
 Within his heart, controlled by nobler powers, 
 Tlie buds of faith bloomed into perfect flowers ; 
 Till with new light, Creation he could see, 
 A faultless form, whose soul was Deity ; 
 And Beauty's image, that once seemed to him 
 A far-off shadow, cold, unreal, dim. 
 Rose fair and luminous before his eyes, 
 As if an angel came from paradise. 
 He pressed its lips, he touched its peerless form. 
 And like Pygmalion's statue, it was warm. 
 
BEAUTY. 
 
 Ah, often thus God speaks to erring hearts ; 
 When passion sways and faith almost departs, 
 He wins them back by some mysterious 
 
 power ; 
 Sometimes it may be through a simple flower 
 That blooms beside their path — sometimes a 
 
 star 
 May light their darkened way, and from afar 
 Bring revelations of that sleepless love 
 That falls in constant blessing from above. 
 
 While Beauty comes to every human heart, 
 And lingers there, unwilling to depart, 
 Too many own her not, nor heed her claim, 
 But blindly follow some ignoble aim. 
 Only the noblest and the pure of earth 
 Receive her as a child of heavenly birth. 
 An angel sent from some diviner sphere. 
 To walk before and smooth our pathway here, 
 
24 BEAUTY. 
 
 Think of that fearless soul, immortal Kane, 
 The new Columbus of an arctic main ! 
 How in that realm of everlasting snow, 
 Amid the dangers of the treacherous floe, 
 
 While Hunger's ghastly face through that long | 
 
 I 
 night 
 
 Stared with its haggard eyes, there blessed his 
 
 sio;ht 
 
 ! 
 
 A vision of the stars, that filled his breast j 
 
 With holy fear and dreams of endless rest. j 
 
 Think how he watched the wild flower lift its I 
 
 head 
 In meek surprise from out its frozen bed. 
 And felt that there, amid eternal ice, 
 God told his presence by that fair device. 
 Two guests from heaven sustained and cheered 
 
 him there, 
 Tlie angel Beauty, and her sister. Prayer. 
 0, hero spirit ! thou didst seek no fame, 
 Yet nations bow before thy sainted name ; 
 
BEAUTY. 25 
 
 Thy mission here was filled, thy toils are o'er ; 
 No sunless winter now, no barren shore, 
 But light, and love, and beauty evermore ; 
 For thou hast found at last that " open sea," 
 The soundless waters of eternity. 
 
 As without food the body must decay. 
 
 So witli the mind — that, too, must pine away. 
 
 Deprived of sustenance it ever craves ; 
 
 What are men more than brutes or cringing 
 
 slaves. 
 If sense and appetite alone control 
 Their being here ? Starvation of the soul. 
 In Heaven's impartial sight, is worse by far 
 Than nature's yearning cries of liunger are ; 
 For though death claims at last our mortal lives, 
 We do not die — the spirit still survives. 
 Dwells evermore in some diviner sphere. 
 More radiant than that which holds us here ; 
 
26 BEAUTY. 
 
 Whose very air, and liglit, and life must be 
 Composed of beauty, love, and purity. 
 
 Life may be sanctified by care and pain ; 
 An earthly loss may be a heavenly gain ; 
 And should the clouds of sorrow o'er us 
 
 meet, 
 And all seem dark before our faltering feet, 
 The angel Beauty walks her radiant way : 
 0, follow her ! She never leads astray ; 
 For where on earth her fairy feet have trod. 
 We trace a starry pathway up to God. 
 How many kingly spirits hath she led ! 
 How hath she loved the unforgotten dead ! 
 She dwelt with Shakspeare, and his dome-like 
 
 brain 
 Filled all the world with one melodious strain ; 
 She stood unveiled before great Milton's sight. 
 And thrilled his soul with visions of delight ; 
 
BEAUTY. 27 
 
 And when God's finger touched his holy eyes, 
 She turned for him tlie key of paradise ; 
 She pressed her lips on Byron's haughty brow, 
 And swept his harp with songs that echo 
 
 now ; 
 She followed Dante's thorny path to fame. 
 And bound his gloomy brow with wreaths of 
 
 flame ; 
 She sang to Wordsworth, crowned with wayside 
 
 flowers. 
 And woke within his heart immortal powers ; 
 She came to Shelley on the skylark's wing. 
 And in the crown of Burns, the peasant king. 
 She twined a mountain daisy, wet with dew, 
 And he was numbered with the deathless few. 
 She loved the starved boy, Chatterton, and 
 
 when 
 He turned forever from the scorn of men. 
 She went in mercy to his lonely bed ; 
 She smoothed the pillow for his weary head, 
 
28 BEAUTY. 
 
 And arched a bow of light o'er death's eclipse ; 
 
 She put her iiectared chalice to his lips, 
 
 And he drank letheon draughts, and closed his 
 
 eyes, 
 And passed with her in silence to the skies. 
 
 And if with prayer and praise thy heart is filled, 
 Its fever cooled, its stormy passions stilled, 
 If thou dost catch faint glimpses of that shore 
 Where sorrow dies, and parting is no more. 
 And thou canst almost solve death's mystery, 
 0, then, God's handmaid. Beauty, dwells with 
 thee ! 
 
THE BIRTH OF LIGHT. 
 
 My form was hid in darkness ; when the earth 
 Was void and formless, and the shoreless deep 
 Rolled its black waters, sullen and alone, 
 Ere man was formed, or any living thing, 
 " God said. Let there be light," and at his word 
 The pall of gloom uplifted, and I flashed 
 To life, baptizing with my radiant smile 
 A new-born world. 
 
 The Almighty viewed me with benignant eye. 
 And I stood forth, the glad, immortal Day ! 
 Above me then heaven's azure dome was arched ; 
 The waters were divided, and the world 
 Was flushed with joy ; the emerald grass crept 
 
 o'er 
 __ __ 
 
30 THE BIRTH OF LIGHT. 
 
 The barren hills, and caught my happy smile ; 
 The valleys bloomed with flowers ; the ocean 
 
 heaved 
 Its breast exiiltingly, and sang aloud 
 Melodious anthems to the listening shore, 
 And at God's high command, the pulse of life 
 Beat in its hidden and unsounded depths. 
 Then living creatures swarmed the fruitful 
 
 land ; 
 All welcomed me and blessed me for my birth ; 
 And last of all, (the best and crowning act,) 
 From out the dust of earth He fashioned Man, 
 And in his nostrils breathed the breath of life, 
 And he became a living soul, and bore 
 His deathless stamp. 
 
 My great heart is the Sun ! 
 My mother is the Night, the holy Night ; 
 And God hatli made her beautiful, and set 
 Upon her dusky brow a glittering crown 
 
THE BIRTH OF LIGHT. 31 
 
 Of stars. Though at my birth he parted iis, 
 'Twas for a few short hours ; for when I see 
 The first gem burn upon her coronet, 
 I haste to meet her, as with noiseless step, 
 She comes to wander o'er a waiting world ; 
 And when we meet, she folds me to her 
 
 heart. 
 And sings to me such sweet and soothing 
 
 strains, 
 I fall asleep upon her dewy breast, 
 Nor wake again till morn. 
 
 The muffled tread 
 Of centuries in their solemn march, awakes 
 In me no saddening thoughts of age or death ; 
 No shadow dims the lustre 'of my eye ; 
 Though I have seen proud empires rise and 
 
 fall; 
 Though cities, great in their magnificence. 
 Have sunk in earth and vanished from my gaze. 
 
32 THE BIRTH OF LIGHT. 
 
 And nought Init crumbling columns mark their 
 
 graves ; 
 Though Time's worn trophies thick around 
 
 me lie, 
 Its blight falls not on me ; I ever wear 
 The same unchanging flush of morning bloom. 
 
 I am great Nature's limner, and I dip 
 My pencil in the liquid blue of heaven, 
 And tinge the violet's leaf; with gorgeous tints 
 I paint the Summer rainbows on the skies ; 
 And though their fairy colors seem to fade, 
 Their glories are not lost ; for when, with pride, 
 The golden-sandalled Autumn walks the earth, 
 She showers their splendors on the forest trees, 
 
 I am impartial as the air or dew ; 
 My blessing falls on all ; the rich man's gold 
 Buys not my favoring smile ; I have no frown 
 For poverty ; no kindlier falls my glance 
 
THE BIRTH OF LIGHT. 33 
 
 On palace walls than on the beggar's hut. 
 
 I stretch my hand through gloomy dungeon 
 
 bars, 
 And beckon the lone captive from his cell ; 
 I touch his darkened soul, and sometimes bring 
 Tears to his eyes, repentance to his heart. 
 I tread where mortal footstep never dares ; 
 I kiss the mountain tops, whose hoary heads 
 Forever wear a veil of clouds ; I creep 
 With shining feet down deep ravines, and chase 
 The brooding shadows into viewless air. 
 But ah ! the grave — my glances reach not 
 
 there ; 
 Though with my sunbeam fingers I may strew 
 Its sod above with flowers, I shed no bloom 
 Within ; God's eye alone can pierce its gloom, 
 And thou, man ! through him alone canst 
 
 read 
 Its silent mysteries. 
 
THE MISSING SHIPS. 
 
 0, THOU ever restless sea, 
 '' God's half-uttered mystery," 
 Where are all the ships that sailed so gallantly 
 away? 
 Tell us, will they never more 
 Furl their wings and come to shore ? 
 Eyes still watch and fond hearts wait ; 
 precious freight had they. 
 
 Precious freight ! ay, wealth untold. 
 More than merchandise or gold, 
 Did the stately vessels bear o'er the heaving 
 main ; 
 Human souls are dearer far 
 Than all earthly treasures are. 
 And for them we weep and pray ; must it be 
 in vain ? 
 
 (34) 
 
THE MISSING SHIPS. 35 
 
 In the silence of the night, 
 Did they, with a wild affright. 
 Wake to hear the cry of Fire ! echo to the 
 stars ? 
 While the cruel, snake-like flame. 
 Creeping, coiling, hissing came 
 O'er the deck, and up the mast, and out along 
 the spars ! 
 
 As the doomed ship swayed and tossed 
 Like a mighty holocaust, 
 Did they with despairing cries leap into the 
 waves ? 
 Or with folded hands, and eyes 
 Lifted to the peaceful skies, 
 Calmly go with prayerful hearts to their name- 
 less graves ? 
 
 Did the black wings of the blast 
 Poise and hover o'er the mast. 
 
36 THE MISSING SHIPS. 
 
 Till at last in wrath they swept o'er the 
 crowded deck ? 
 Leaving not a soul to tell 
 How the long and awful swell 
 Of the ocean's troubled breast bore a dismal 
 wreck ; — 
 
 How amid the thunder's crash, 
 And the lightning's lurid flash, 
 (Autograph the Storm-king writes on his scroll 
 of clouds,) 
 High above the deafening strife 
 Piteous cries were heard for life, 
 Fear-struck human beings seen clinging to the 
 shrouds ! 
 
 Or with shattered hulk and sail, 
 Riding out the stormy gale. 
 Did the brave ship slowly sink deeper day and \ 
 night ? I 
 
THE MISSING SHIPS. 37 
 
 Drifting, drifting wearily 
 O'er the wide and trackless sea, 
 Loved ones starving, dying there with no sail 
 in sight. 
 
 Or when winds and waves were hushed, 
 While each cheek with joy was flushed, 
 I As they glided gently on, hope in every breast, 
 With a sudden leap and shock, 
 Did they strike some hidden rock, 
 And go down, forever down to their dreamless 
 rest? 
 
 Did the strange and spectral fleet 
 Of the icebergs round them meet. 
 
 Pressing closer till they sank crashing to the 
 deep? 
 Do these crystal mountains loom. 
 Monuments of that vast tomb. 
 
 In the ocean's quiet depths where so many sleep ? 
 
38 THE MISSING SHIPS. 
 
 0, thou ever-surging sea, 
 Vainly do we question thee ; 
 Thy blue waves no answer bring as they kiss 
 the strand ; 
 But we know each coral grave, 
 Far beneath the rolling wave, 
 Shall at last give up its dead, touched by God's 
 right hand. 
 
AT NIGHT. 
 
 Come forth, beloved, to the night ! 
 
 What though no stars are in the skies ; 
 Enough for me the loving light 
 
 That lives within your gentle eyes. 
 
 We'll sit together in the dark, 
 
 Beside the meadows cool and damp. 
 
 And watch the fireflies by the spark 
 That glimmers from each tiny lamp. 
 
 What happy, happy lives they pass ! 
 
 What hours amid the tasselled corn ! 
 What pleasures in the dewy grass, 
 
 That vanish with the light of morn ! 
 
 (39) 
 
40 AT NIGHT. 
 
 They haunt this fragrant summer air, 
 While every thing around us seems 
 
 To rest beneath the wings of prayer, 
 And breathe the atmosphere of dreams. 
 
 Come forth ! peace falls upon my breast, 
 Like dews descending to the sod ; 
 
 As if the arms of Nature pressed 
 Me closer to the heart of God. 
 
FOUND DEAD. 
 
 Found dead ! dead and alone ! 
 
 There was nobody near, nobody near 
 When the Outcast died on his pillow of 
 stone — 
 
 No mother, no brother, no sister dear, 
 Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer. 
 Not a watching eye or a pitying tear — 
 0, the city slept when he died alone 
 In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone. 
 
 Many a weary day went by, 
 
 While wretched and worn he begged for 
 bread. 
 Tired of life, and longing to lie 
 
 Peacefully down with the silent dead ; 
 
 ^41) 
 
42 FOUND DEAD. 
 
 Hunger and cold, and scorn and pain, 
 Had wasted his form and seared his brain, 
 Till at last on a bed of frozen ground. 
 With a pillow of stone, was the Outcast found. 
 
 Found dead ! dead and alone, 
 
 On a pillow of stone in the roofless street ; 
 Nobody heard his last faint moan. 
 
 Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat ; 
 No mourner lingered with tears or sighs. 
 But the stars looked down with pitying eyes. 
 And the chill winds passed with a wailing 
 
 sound 
 O'er the lonely spot where his form was 
 
 found. 
 
 Found dead ! yet not alone ; 
 
 There was somebody near — somebody near 
 To claim the wanderer as his own, 
 
 And find a home for the homeless here ; 
 
FOUND DEAD. 43 
 
 One, when every human door 
 Is closed to his children, scorned and poor. 
 Who opens the heavenly portal wide ; 
 Ah, God was near when the Outcast died. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 The world puts on its robes of glory now ; 
 
 The very flowers are tinged with deeper dyes ; 
 The waves are bluer, and the angels pitch 
 
 Their shining tents along the sunset skies. 
 
 The distant hills are crowned with purple mist ; 
 
 The days are mellow, and the long, calm 
 nights, 
 To wondering eyes like weird magicians show 
 
 The shifting splendors of the Northern Lights. 
 
 The generous earth spreads out her fruitful 
 stores, 
 And all the fields are decked with ripened 
 sheaves ; 
 While in the woods, at Autumn's rustling step, 
 The maples blush through all their trembling 
 leaves. 
 
 (44) 
 
NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 What though they boast of fairer lauds, 
 Give me New Eugland's hallowed soil, 
 
 The fearless hearts, the swarthy hauds 
 Stamped with the heraldry of toil. 
 
 I love her valleys broad and fair. 
 
 The pathless wood, the gleamiug lake. 
 
 The bold and rocky bastions, where 
 The billows of the ocean break ; 
 
 The grandeur of each mountain peak 
 That rears to Heaven its granite form. 
 
 The craggy cliffs where eagles shriek. 
 Amid the thunder and the storm. 
 
 And dear to me each noble deed 
 
 Wrought by the iron wills of yore — 
 
 The Pilgrim hands that sowed the seed 
 Of Freedom on her sterile shore. 
 
 (45) 
 
IN THE WOODS. 
 
 I WALKED alone in depths of Antnmn woods ; 
 
 The ruthless whids had left the maple bare ; 
 The fern was withered, and the sweetbrier's 
 breath 
 
 No longer gave its fragrance to the air. 
 
 The barberry strung its coral beads no more ; 
 
 The thistle-down on gauzy wings had flown ; 
 And myriad leaves, on which the Summer wrote 
 
 Her blushing farewell, at my feet were 
 strown. 
 
 A loneliness pervaded every spot ; 
 
 A gloom of which my musing soul partook ; 
 All Nature mourns, I said ; November wild 
 
 Hath torn the fairest pages from her book. 
 
 (46) 
 
IN THE WOODS. 47 
 
 But suddenly a wild bird overhead 
 
 Poured forth a strain so strangely clear and 
 sweet, 
 It seemed to bring me back the skies of May, 
 
 And wake the sleeping violets at my feet. 
 
 Then long I pondered o'er the poet's words, 
 " The loss of beauty is not always loss," 
 
 Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain. 
 And gave me strength to bear again my cross. 
 
 murmuring heart ! thy pleasures may decay. 
 Thy faith grow cold, thy golden dreams take 
 wing ; 
 Still in the realm of faded youth and joy, 
 Heaven kindly leaves some bird of hope to 
 sing. 
 
SONGS AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 In the West the distant lightning 
 
 Fitfully doth come and go, 
 Like the radiant wings of fireflies 
 
 Flashing to and fro. 
 
 Every where the mellow moonlight 
 
 Lietli mystical and fair, 
 And the cool winds of the ocean 
 
 Fan the heated air. 
 
 To our casement, from the garden, 
 Where the flowers with dew are wet. 
 
 Floats the breath that parts the fragrant 
 Lips of mignonnette. 
 
 (48) 
 
SONGS AT MIDNIGHT. 49 
 
 Nothing breaks the dreamy stiUness, 
 On the earth, in heaven above, 
 
 Save the sound of far-off voices 
 Singing songs of love. 
 
 How my heart thrills as I listen ! 
 
 "What dear visions fill my brain, 
 As the old tunes, half forgotten, 
 
 Come to me again ! 
 
 They are songs we sang together 
 Underneath the whispering trees ; 
 
 Ah, our holy passion blossomed 
 On such nights as these. 
 
 They are melodies we chanted 
 Years ago, in midnight hours, 
 
 When beloved voices mingled 
 Trustingly with ours. 
 
50 SONGS AT BIIDNIGHT. 
 
 You are sad and silent, Marion ; 
 
 Tears are in your tender eyes ; 
 Are you thinking of a maiden 
 
 Now in Paradise ? 
 
 Does she stand once more before you, 
 While her sweet voice haunts the air, 
 
 Just the same as when she left us, 
 Fairest of the fair ? 
 
 Do not weep — the loving Father, 
 When he took her gentle hand, 
 
 Led her to the fair, green pastures 
 Of the better land. 
 
 She may be the Queen of Angels, 
 
 In the bright spheres where they dwell. 
 
 In her music tones surpasssing 
 Sweet-voiced Israfel. 
 
SONGS AT MIDNIGHT. 51 
 
 Do not weep, but sit beside me ; 
 
 Listen to the soothing chimes, 
 As they seem to peal from turrets 
 
 Of the olden times. 
 
FLOWERS. 
 
 They are the autographs of angels, penned 
 In Nature's green-leaved book, in blended tmts. 
 Borrowed from rainbows and the sunset skies, 
 And written every where — on plain and hill. 
 In lonely dells, 'mid crowded haunts of men ; 
 On the broad prairies, where no eye save God's 
 May read their silent, sacred mysteries. 
 
 Thank God for flowers ! they gladden human 
 
 hearts ; 
 Seraphic breathings part their fragrant lips 
 With whisperhigs of Heaven. 
 
 (52) 
 
THE TRESS OF HAIR. 
 
 A SINGLE tress of golden hair ; 
 A sacred relic kept with care ; 
 A memory of one so fair. 
 
 That angels left their hymning band, 
 And came to earth, to take his hand 
 And lead him to the Unseen Land. 
 
 But ere he trod the starry way 
 That leadeth to eternal day, 
 As calm and beautiful he lay. 
 
 This curling tress of golden hair, 
 This sacred relic kept with care, 
 She gathered from his forehead fair. 
 
 (53) 
 
54 
 
 THE TRESS OF HAIR. 
 
 0, lingering o'er the treasure long, 
 A thousand tender memories throng ; 
 She hears again his cradle song ! 
 
 And yesternight before she slept, 
 She pressed it to her lips and wept ; 
 Warm tear-drops down her pale face crept ; 
 
 While to her aching heart she said, 
 " Why mournest thou that he is dead ? 
 He sleepeth in a peaceful bed. 
 
 God called him to a sweet repose. 
 
 And he hath slept through winter snows. 
 
 Till now the dewy violet blows 
 
 Above his grave — soft mosses spring. 
 
 And birds on free and happy wing. 
 
 All day their heaven-tuned praises sing." 
 
THE TRESS OF HAIR. 55 
 
 Ah, yes, with joy the April rain 
 
 Thrills Nature's breast, but mine with pain 
 
 Sigheth — he will not come again. 
 
TO MY SOUL. 
 
 Guest from a holier world, 
 0, tell me where the peaceful valleys lie ? 
 Dove ill the ark of life, when thou shalt fly, 
 
 Where will thy wings be furled ? 
 
 Where is thy native nest ? 
 Where the green pastures that the blessdd 
 
 roam ? 
 Impatient dweller in thy clay-built home. 
 
 Where is thy heavenly rest ? 
 
 On some immortal shore, 
 Some realm away from earth and time, I know ; 
 A land of bloom, where living waters flow, 
 
 And grief comes nevermore. 
 
 — 
 
TO MY SOUL. 57 
 
 Faith turns my eyes above ; 
 Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies; 
 Night watches calmly with her starry eyes 
 
 All tremulous with love. 
 
 And as entranced I gaze, 
 Sweet music floats to mc from distant lyres ; 
 I see a temple, round whose golden spires 
 
 Unearthly glory plays ! 
 
 Beyond those azure deeps 
 I fix thy home — a mansion kept for thee 
 Within the Father's house, whose noiseless key 
 
 Kind Death, the warder, keeps ! 
 
OAK AND VINE. 
 
 Far out upon the lonely wold 
 
 There stands an oak tree sere and old ; 
 
 The sunshine and the dews of spring- 
 No verdure to its branches bring ; 
 
 Decayed and withered, shrunk and bare, 
 Like ghostly arms tliey stretch in air. 
 
 For many a year its towering form 
 Withstood the whirlwind and the storm — 
 
 A leaf-roofed home for summer birds, 
 A shelter for the lowinof herds. 
 
 •& 
 
 Once when the blast was wild and loud, 
 From out its dusky sheath of cloud 
 
 (58) 
 
OAK AND VINE. 59 
 
 The lightning flashed and pierced its heart, 
 And tore its sinewy limbs apart ; 
 
 Ah, like a crashing sabre stroke 
 It sank into that heart of oak ! 
 
 Then fell its foliage leaf by leaf. 
 As joys fall at the touch of grief. 
 
 And as around a generous heart 
 
 Cling summer friends, that will not part 
 
 While wealth, and joy, and sunshine last. 
 But soon forsake when some wild blast 
 
 Of sorrow, in an evil hour, 
 
 Sweeps o'er it with destroying power — 
 
 So beast and bird upon the wold 
 Forsake the oak tree bare and old. 
 
60 OAK AND VINE. 
 
 But from its roots there springs a vine, 
 Whose climbing tendrils round it twine, 
 
 Unshaken by the tempest's rage — 
 A garland on the brow of age. 
 
 The heart is like the rifted oak ; 
 Though sorrow with a fearful stroke 
 
 Its budding wealth of joy may blight, 
 It leaves it not deserted quite ; 
 
 Not wholly wretched and forlorn, 
 For, ever in its depths is born 
 
 Some blessed hope, that like the vine 
 Around the ruin still will twine. 
 
THE CHIMES. 
 
 Ages since, men heard the ringing 
 Of the song-bells gently swinging 
 
 In the starry domes of thought ; 
 Long they listened to the chimes 
 That the poet's golden rhymes 
 
 Out of sweetest fancies wrought. 
 
 Still the tuneful bells are pealing, 
 Waking every holy feeling ; 
 
 Still they vibrate in the past ; 
 And the poet of to-day 
 Hears the music far away. 
 
 Clearer than a clarion's blast ! 
 
 (61) 
 
DEDICATION ODE. 
 
 There is a temple towering high 
 
 Within the boundless realm of Time - 
 
 A thought-built palace filled with truth 
 And mystery sublime. 
 
 In splendor through its shining dome 
 The starry light of genius falls, 
 
 And he who will may enter in, 
 And king-like walk its halls. 
 
 But at its broad and ample base 
 The eager throng must vainly wait, 
 
 Till Knowledge with her magic key 
 Unlocks the golden gate. 
 
DEDICATION ODE. 63 
 
 In these fair halls she sits enthroned, 
 The magic key within her hand, 
 
 Uplifted to the temple, reared 
 In Thought's enchanted land. 
 
 0, ye who love her radiant form. 
 And strive to gain that palace gate. 
 
 Remember, 'tis a noble thing 
 '' To labor and to wait." 
 
 Let no fond dream of wealth or ease 
 
 Your earnest zeal ignobly foil ; 
 The laurel wreath of Fame would fade 
 
 Without the dew of toil. 
 
THE HOUSEHOLD PET. 
 
 A HAPPY child, whose clear blue eyes 
 Look in our own with winning power ; 
 
 A budding lip where laughter lies, 
 Like sunlight on a flower ; — 
 
 A voice whose music tones once heard, 
 The charmed ear would not forget. 
 
 As joyous as the song of bird — 
 Our little household Pet. 
 
 From morn till night his tiny feet 
 Beat music on the echoing floor, 
 
 And when I come he hastes to meet 
 And kiss me at the door. 
 
 (64) 
 
THE HOUSEHOLD PET. 65 
 
 Around my neck his fond arms twine 
 With loving welcome, e'er the same, 
 
 And with his fair cheek pressed to mine, 
 He sweetly lisps my name. 
 
 Without the rapture of his kiss. 
 The joy that rests on lip and brow, 
 
 Our home would lose one half the bliss 
 That dwells within it now. 
 
THE BREATH OF SPRING. 
 
 The breath of Spring will steal again 
 Bloom-scented o'er the earth, 
 
 And silently the sleeping flowers 
 In beauty wake to birth. 
 
 Bright birds will flit and blossoms float 
 
 Upon the balmy air, 
 And Nature with her yernal song 
 
 Pour gladness every where. 
 
 I think of those who lie asleep 
 
 Within the silent tomb ; 
 To them the spring-time comes in vain, 
 
 With all its light and bloom. 
 
 (66) 
 
THE BREATH OF SPRING. 67 
 
 I dream of her who early sought 
 
 A fairer Spring than ours, 
 Of her who died when autumn winds 
 
 Sighed o'er the fading flowers. 
 
 She knew that balmier breezes played 
 
 In Paradise afar, 
 And sweeter notes than those of birds 
 
 Were sung where angels are. 
 
IN THE STARLIGHT. 
 
 Ye fadeless flowers that gem the fields of Space, 
 Unseen hj mortal eyes what thne the Day 
 Bathes earth and sky in floods of living light ; 
 Whose golden petals to the night unfold, 
 All tremulous with beauty, as if stirred 
 By airs from Heaven, or fanned by serapli 
 
 wings ; 
 Ye glittering sands upon a tideless shore ; 
 Footprints by angels made in sapphire walks ; 
 Caskets that shrine the loved and lost of earth ; 
 Bright mysteries that fill the soul with thought. 
 Men worsliipped ye of old, and read their lives 
 By your mild liglit, and heathen eyes have 
 
 gazed 
 With holy wonder on your loveliness. 
 
 (66) 
 
IN THE STARLIGHT. 69 
 
 Beneath your peaceful splendor I will bow, 
 And ye shall be to me the types of God, 
 " The broad and jewelled floor of his abode," 
 My shining home ; and when the Angel Death 
 Shall come to lead me there, 0, may it be 
 In the hushed night, at such an hour as this. 
 The heavens as cloudless, and your crystal fires 
 As glorious as now, that they may light 
 The dusky valley for my fainting feet. . 
 
THE SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 A WHITE haze glimmered on the hills, 
 The vales were parched and dry, 
 
 And glaringly the burning sun 
 Coursed in the summer sky. 
 
 The cattle, in the distant woods 
 Sought shelter from its beams, 
 
 Or, motionless and patient stood. 
 Knee-deep, amid the streams. 
 
 The house-dog lay with panting breath 
 Close where the elm trees grew ; 
 
 The bluebird and the oriole 
 To shady coverts flew. 
 
 (70) 
 
THE SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 71 
 
 Day after day the thirsty earth 
 
 Looked up to heaven for rain ; 
 Tlie gardens held their flower-cups, 
 
 The fields their lips of grain. 
 
 With doubting hearts, men, murmuring, said. 
 
 " Our toils have been in vain ; 
 We sowed in spring, but shall not reap 
 
 When autumn comes again." 
 
 But while they spoke, within the west, 
 
 At sunset's glowing hour, 
 God's voice proclaimed in thunder tones 
 
 The coming of the shower ! 
 
 The deepening shadows slowly crept 
 
 O'er mountain and o'er plain, 
 Until in cool and copious floods 
 
 Came down the blessed rain. 
 
72 THE SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 All nature smiled ; and when at last 
 The cloudy wings were ftirled, 
 
 The evening star shone regally 
 Above a thankful world. 
 
 love of Heaven ! fear of man ! 
 
 faith so cold and dim ! 
 When shall we own the ways of God, 
 
 And learn to trust in Him ? 
 
MY NATIVE RIVER. 
 
 Like an azure vein from the heart of the main, 
 
 Piilshig with joy forever. 
 By verdurous Isles, with dimpled smiles, 
 
 Floweth my native river. 
 
 Singing a song as it flows along, 
 
 Hushed by the Ice-king never ; 
 For he strives in vain to clasp a chain 
 
 O'er thy fetterless heart, brave river ! 
 
 Singing to me as full and free 
 
 As it sang to the dusky daughters, 9 
 
 When the light canoe like a sea-bird flew 
 Over its peaceful waters ; 
 
 (73) 
 
74 MY NATIYE RIVER. 
 
 Or when by tlic shore of Sagamore 
 They joined in their mystic dances ; 
 
 Where the lover's vow is whispered now, 
 By the light of maiden glances. 
 
 0, when the dart shall strike my heart, 
 Speeding from Death's full quiver, 
 
 May I close my eyes where smiling skies 
 Bend o'er my native river. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT VOICE. 
 
 Father, at this calm hour, 
 Alone, in prayer I bend an humble knee ; 
 My soul in silence wings its flight to Thee, 
 
 And owns Thy boundless power. 
 
 Day's weary toil is o'er ; 
 No worldly strife my heart-felt worship mars ; 
 Beneath the mystery of the silent stars, 
 
 I tremble and adore. 
 
 Not when the frenzied storm 
 Writhes 'mid the darkness, till in wild despair. 
 Bursting its thunder chains, the lightning's 
 glare 
 
 Reveals its awful form — 
 
 (75) 
 
76 THE MIDNIGHT VOICE. 
 
 I wait not for that hour ; 
 In flower and dew, hi sunshine cahn and free, 
 I hear a still small voice that speaks of Thee 
 
 With holier, deeper power. 
 
 Above the thunder notes, 
 Serene and clear, the music of the spheres 
 Forever rolls, though not to mortal ears 
 
 The Heavenly cadence floats. 
 
MAY. 
 
 Spring at its noon of beauty ! Blossoms fill 
 The air with fragrance ; every bloom- 
 wreathed bough 
 
 Is rife with music, and my pulses thrill, 
 May, at thy warm kiss upon my brow ! 
 
 0, it is joy to breathe the golden air. 
 To feel the zephyrs, as they softly play, 
 Waft from the heart a weight of care away ; 
 
 To let the moments lead our footsteps where 
 We plucked the violets of our childhood time ; 
 
 To roam our native woodlands yet a child, 
 
 And know again the joy and transport wild 
 That flushed us then. Sometimes in man- 
 hood's prime 
 
 Come back sweet memories with the vestal glow 
 
 They wore in blissful spring-times long ago. 
 
78 MAY. 
 
 And though m dreams alone such memories 
 live, 
 Should we lament in tears the happy past, 
 Forgetting hours like these ? or basely give 
 Our hearts' best wealth for gold ? To-day I 
 cast 
 My fetters off, once more to wander free 
 
 Beneath thy smiling heavens, thou radiant 
 
 May 1 
 Yet while I sing to thee my thankful lay, 
 0, there are lips that have no song for thee, 
 And hearts that sorrow 'mid thy joy and 
 bloom. 
 And eyes that view thy glories, dim with tears ; 
 For, backward gazing through the mists of 
 years, 
 Rise saddened memories from the moulder- 
 ing tomb. 
 And cast a shadow and a blight o'er all 
 Thy wide-spread scene of beauty, like a pall. 
 
JOE. 
 
 All day long with a vacant stare, 
 Alone in the chilling Autumn air. 
 With naked feet he wanders slow 
 Over the city — the idiot Joe ! 
 
 I often marvel why he was horn, 
 A child of humanity thus forlorn, 
 Unloved, unnoticed hy all below ; 
 A cheerless thing is the life of Joe ! 
 
 Beauty can throw no spell o'er him ; 
 His inner vision is weak and dim ; 
 And Nature in all her varied show 
 "Weareth no charm for the eyes of Joe. 
 
 r79) 
 
80 JOE. 
 
 Earth may wake at the kiss of Spring, 
 Flowers may blossom and birds may sing ; 
 With joy the crystal streams may flow ; 
 They never make glad the heart of Joe. 
 
 His vague and wandering thoiights enfold 
 No dreams of glory, no schemes for gold ; 
 He knows not the blight of hopes, yet 0, 
 A blighted thing is the life of Joe ! 
 
 Who would not suffer the ills of life, 
 Its numberless wrongs, its sin and strife. 
 And willingly bear its weight of woe, 
 Rather than be the idiot Joe ? 
 
 I think of him in the silent night, 
 When every star seems a beacon light, 
 To guide us, wanderers here below. 
 To the better land — the home of Joe. 
 
JOE. 81 
 
 For He who hears when the ravens call, 
 And watches even the sparrow's fall — 
 He, in his measureless love, I know, 
 Will kindly care for the soul of Joe. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 When Spring with gladness filled the earth, 
 To us it brought no sound of mirth ; 
 We cared not if the robin sang ; 
 We watched no blossom as it sprang ; 
 Our eyes with coming grief were wet ; 
 Anemone and violet 
 Put forth their little lives of bloom, 
 But she was fading for the tomb — 
 
 Hopefully and trustfully 
 
 Passing to Eternity. 
 
 Now winds are wild and sere leaves fall ; 
 A dying glory mantles all ; 
 I sit and watch the tears of rain 
 Steal slowly down the window-pane. 
 
 (82)" 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 83 
 
 The wailing of the Autumn blast 
 Stirs many a dead leaf of the Past 
 Within my soul ; I seem to hear 
 The wan hps of the dying year, 
 
 Mournfully, 0, mournfully. 
 
 Chant a low, sad melody. 
 
 Old voices mingle in the strain ; 
 Lost dreams of Youth come back again ; 
 Loved forms once more beside me stand ; 
 I feel the pressure of her hand 
 Within mine own ; in angel guise 
 She comes to me from Paradise ; 
 She turns on me her holy eyes. 
 That overflow with mysteries, 
 
 Lovingly, so lovingly. 
 
 Full of immortality. 
 
 0, weeping rain ! 0, dying year ! 
 Ye bring her sainted presence near ; 
 
84 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 0, moaning wind ! 0, falling leaf! 
 Ye shall not fill my soul with grief 
 For her whose feet so early trod 
 The starry steeps that lead to God ! 
 Whose heart shall never bear again 
 Life's weight of weariness and pain. 
 Tenderly and joyfully 
 Thrill the chords of memory ! 
 
THE NECROPOLIS. 
 
 Though the sexton, grim and old, 
 
 Turns the mould, 
 
 Damp and cold, 
 In the churchyard, for the bed 
 Of the still and holy dead ; 
 
 Though we see the green turf prest 
 
 On each breast 
 
 Full of rest, 
 Full of quiet, sweet and deep. 
 Yet not there our loved ones sleep. 
 
 0, the graves where they are laid 
 Sexton's spade 
 Never made ! 
 
 (85) 
 
86 THE NECROPOLIS. 
 
 Nor do sculptured tablets tell 
 That within the heart they dwell. 
 
 Where the winter winds, we know, 
 
 Cannot blow, 
 
 And the snow 
 Never hides the flowers that grow, 
 Fadeless, from the dust below. 
 
FLORA BELL. 
 
 Have you heard our soug-bird sing ? 
 To our hearts, as larks to Spring, 
 She brings music on her wing ; 
 
 In a nest beside the swell 
 Of the blue and hymning sea, 
 Beating, beating grand and free 
 Its eternal minstrelsy, 
 
 Dwells and carols Flora Bell. 
 
 Many an artless, heart-born strain, 
 Set to music in her brain, 
 As tlie rhythm of the main 
 
 In the bosom of a shell, 
 Chanteth she, in tones so clear. 
 That methinks the world should hear. 
 And its warblers, gathering near. 
 
 Strive to mimic Flora Bell. 
 
 (87) 
 
FLORA BELL. 
 
 Once her young heart trilled a lay 
 Full and fresh with hope as May 
 With its blossoms ; far away 
 
 Its glad echoes gently fell 
 On a breaking human heart, 
 Bidding all its fears depart, 
 Soothing all its woe and smart : 
 
 Blessings on thee, Flora Bell ! 
 
 Close beside the hymning sea, 
 Chant thy sweet songs full and free 
 For a wide Humanity ; 
 
 And though none their power should tell, 
 Yet we know above this sphere 
 Bends an ever-listening ear ; 
 God will bless thee — He will hear ; 
 
 Keep on singing. Flora Bell ! 
 
EBB AND FLOW. 
 
 I WANDERED aloHG beside the stream ; 
 
 The tide was out and the sands were bare ; 
 The tremulous tone of the sea-bird's scream 
 
 Like a winged arrow pierced the air. 
 
 I roamed till the sun in the west was low, 
 And the robes of twilight trailed in the sea ; 
 
 The waves pulsed in with a rhythmical flow, 
 And the nightingale sang a song to me. 
 
 All day I roam by the stream of Song ; 
 
 The tide is out, and my life is bare ; 
 While shadows of evil round me throng, 
 
 And drearily croak the birds of Care. 
 
90 EBB AND FLOW. 
 
 But at night the waves roll back again, 
 And flow in music over my heart, 
 
 Till the dusky phantoms of grief and pain 
 From the charmed shores of my brain depart. 
 
MAY-FLOWERS. 
 
 Children of the pathless wood, 
 Dwelling in deep solitude, 
 Born of earth and blessed of heaven, 
 Proofs of love that God hath given ; 
 Pledges from His bounteous hand. 
 Ever fair and sinless band — 
 
 When your gentle mother, Spring, 
 Heard the happy robin sing, 
 Tlien we saw her, calm and slow. 
 Lift the coverlet of snow 
 From your tiny forms, and press 
 Your pure lips with tenderness. 
 
 And we knew she lingered there. 
 Whispering words of love and prayer ; 
 
92 MAY-FLOWERS. 
 
 For at last each sleeping child, 
 Looking upward, sweetly smiled, 
 With the beauty of the skies 
 Mirrored in its dewy eyes ! 
 
 Low winds whispering through the trees ; 
 
 Dreamy murmurings of bees ; 
 
 Notes of birds, and flow of rills ; 
 
 Music that the rain distils ; 
 
 Your sweet cradle songs are these. 
 
 And unnumbered melodies. 
 
 O, ye children of the wood, 
 ^lessengers of solitude, 
 Ye are dearer far to me 
 Than the nurslings of the lea ! 
 For ye bring to heart and brain 
 Cliildhood's rosy dreams again. 
 
THE VEILED GEIEF. 
 
 0, THINK not that my eyes are dry, 
 Because you mark no falling tears ; 
 
 There flows a river deep and dark, 
 Whose waters ebb not with the years. 
 
 And think not that my lips are mute, 
 Because you hear no spoken word 
 
 Fidl freighted with the tones of grief— 
 I hear a voice you never heard. 
 
 And think not that my heart is cold, 
 Because no passion fires my breast ; 
 
 There is a chamber in my soul 
 That only owns an angel guest. 
 
 (93) 
 
94 THE VEILED GRIEF. 
 
 My tears fall inward on my heart, 
 
 And, dew-like, keep its memories green ; 
 
 Sad strains, unheard by other ears. 
 Break forth for me from lips unseen. 
 
1 
 
 THE PAUPER'S PRAYER. 
 
 " Fair lady, in thy silken robes, 
 
 With jewels in thy hair, 
 
 0, leave a while thy thrilling lute, 
 
 And listen to my prayer ! 
 
 " Give but a diamond from thy brow. 
 
 A jewel from thy dress ; 
 
 I ask it for a cheerless home 
 
 Of want and wretchedness ; 
 
 " A home where Hunger preys by day, 
 
 Nor feeds itself at night, 
 
 But only shuts its sunken eye. 
 
 To ope with morning light." 
 
 (95) 
 
96 
 
 THE pauper's prayer, 
 
 She heard him not, but closer bound 
 Her gems about her hair ; 
 
 No comfort for the pauper's home, 
 No answer to his prayer. 
 
 She cast him coldly from her door ; 
 
 No gem, no gold was given ; 
 That lady fair, so rich on earth, 
 
 But, O, so poor in heaven ! 
 
THE DEAD. 
 
 I CANNOT tell you if the dead, 
 That loved us fondly when on earth, 
 Walk by our side, sit at our hearth, 
 
 By ties of old affection led ; 
 
 Or, looking earnestly within. 
 Know all our joys, hear all our sighs. 
 And watch us with their holy eyes 
 
 Whene'er we tread the paths of sin ; 
 
 Or if with mystic lore and sign, 
 They speak to us, or press our hand, 
 And strive to make us understand 
 
 The nearness of their forms divine. 
 
 (97) 
 
98 THE DEAD, 
 
 But this I know — in many dreams 
 They come to me from reahns afar, 
 And leave the golden gates ajar, 
 
 Through which immortal glory streams. 
 
AN INYOCATION. 
 
 Restless phantoms haunt my brain ! 
 Come and ease my nameless pain, 
 
 Sleep — sweet sleep. 
 I would own thy gentle power ; 
 It is midnight's holy hour ; 
 Wave thy charmed wand over me, 
 Let thy mantle cover me, 
 
 Sleep — sweet sleep ! 
 
 Clasp me in thy dusky arms. 
 Soothe me with thy mystic balms. 
 
 Sleep — sweet sleep. 
 Let me drink thy letheon wine. 
 Press tliy dewy lips to mine. 
 
 (99) 
 
100 AN INVOCATION. 
 
 Fold my hands and close my eyes, 
 Bring me dreams of Paradise, 
 Sleep — sweet sleep. 
 
 Linger with me till the dawn, 
 Leave me not till day is born, 
 
 Sleep — sweet sleep ; 
 Then shall gates of rosy light 
 Open for thy silent flight. 
 Ah ! some time thou'lt come, I know, 
 To my heart, and never go. 
 
 Sleep — sweet sleep ! 
 
THE LOYE OF GOD. 
 
 All human love is a faint type of God's ; 
 
 An echoing note from a harmonious whole ; 
 
 A feeble spark from an undying jflame ; 
 
 A single drop from an unfathomed sea : 
 
 But God's is infinite ; it fills the earth 
 
 And heaven, and the broad, trackless realms 
 of space. 
 
 Earth's myriad voices hymn it ceaselessly ; 
 The mountains tell it to the peaceful vales 
 In tuneful streams and voiceful waterfalls. 
 That bear it on and sing it to the sea, 
 Until its great heart swells — that restless heart 
 Beating forever on the answering shore ! 
 'Tis smiling in the golden light of day. 
 And beaming gently from the starry eyes 
 
 doi) 
 
102 THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 That watch at night, a sinful, shrouded world ; 
 It speaks to us through odorous lips of flowers. 
 And warbles from the singing hearts of birds. 
 
 that all human hearts might join the strain ; 
 Then Hate, and Bigotry, and Sin would die ; 
 Then Peace would reign and wear its olive 
 
 crown. 
 And War with blood-stained feet no longer 
 
 track 
 Earth's fair domain, or wave its crimson flag. 
 Then Pride would lay its flaunting mantle by ; 
 The cry of Hunger cease — the oppressor's rod 
 Would scourge no more, but man be linked to 
 
 man 
 In one unbroken chain of brotherhood. 
 
 ye whose bleeding feet have weary grown 
 In these rough ways of ours — whose brows 
 are pierced 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 103 
 
 By the sharp griefs of life — whose lone hearts 
 
 yearn 
 For human love, and yearn, alas ! in vain, — 
 Though time and death have broken one by one 
 The few, frail reeds on which ye leaned so long 
 And trustingly, and left no earthly stay. 
 Good cheer! there comes at last untroubled 
 
 rest; 
 The crowns are thornless that the angels weave, 
 And God's love is eternal. 
 
A MEMORIAL. 
 
 Thy harp of life hath lost its sweetest tone, 
 Thy fairest flower hath faded at a breath, 
 
 And o'er the sunlight of thy path is thrown 
 A chilling shadow from the Land of Death. 
 
 Yes ! though the sweet and gentle voice of 
 Spring, 
 Called thy loved child to sport among her 
 flowers, 
 He knew that soaring on the spirit's wing, 
 His sinless soul might reach immortal 
 bowers. 
 
 And so he rose a seraph from the earth. 
 
 White-winged and glorious ; free from suf- 
 fering here ; 
 
 004) ~ 
 
A MEMORIAL. 105 
 
 He did not die — he changed his mortal birth 
 For one diviner, in some radiant sphere ; 
 
 Where we shall yet behold him face to face, 
 Where tones, and looks, and smiles, that 
 charmed of old, 
 
 Shall live again, and in one long embrace 
 Our loving arms his angel form enfold. 
 
 0, as ye near that dim and shadowy shore. 
 Where break so many life-waves day by day, 
 
 0, shrink not, fear not — one hath gone before. 
 With angel footsteps to illume the way. 
 
THE PHANTOM. 
 
 There dwelleth a Phantom within my breast, 
 That lieth not down with me to rest, 
 But whether I wake or whether I sleep, 
 Whispereth ever, calm and deep, 
 Like the mystical music that breathes and swells 
 Through the pearly lips of the ocean shells. 
 'Tis a ghost from the kingdom of Long Ago ; 
 'Tis the voice of Memory that haunteth me so. 
 
 0, many and strange the songs it sings ! 
 
 But their burden is ever of vanished things ; 
 
 And whatsoever the strain may be 
 
 Of the voice that dwells and speaks in me. 
 
 The listening ear of my spirit hears ; 
 
 And I thrill with rapture or bend in tears 
 
 At the varied tones that ever flow 
 
 From the lips of the Phantom of Long Ago. 
 
 (106) 
 
AN AUTUMN THOUGHT. 
 
 They'ee speeding on — the weary winter lionrs ; 
 
 These are thy emblems, thou departing year : 
 The falling leaves, the fading of the flowers 
 
 Laid by fond Autumn on the Summer's bier. 
 
 Soon will the song of lingering birds be still, 
 The streamlets lose the music of their tone ; 
 
 For hid with pallid brow behind the hill. 
 Stern Winter waits to mount his glittering 
 
 
 throne. 
 
 
 
 
 Well, 
 
 let the flowers 
 fall; 
 
 decay, the 
 
 dead 
 
 leaves 
 
 Hushed be the birds 
 
 , and stilled the stream- 
 
 
 let's flow ; 
 
 
 
 
 (107) 
 
108 AN AUTUMN THOUGHT. 
 
 Let hoary Winter cast a blight o'er all, 
 
 And bind his withered brow with wreaths of 
 snow. 
 
 We know that May will come, and glad rills 
 
 play, 
 
 And flowers along their emerald borders 
 
 bloom ; 
 
 Though our next spring-time may lie far away 
 
 In some fair clime of light beyond the tomb. 
 
THE SUNBEAM. 
 
 A SUNBEAM through an open door 
 
 Streamed down the death-o'er shadowed aisle, 
 And lighted all our solemn gloom 
 
 With radiance like an angel's smile. 
 
 It crept to where, within her shroud, 
 
 A sainted maiden lay at rest, 
 And gazed upon her pallid brow. 
 
 And slept upon her pulseless breast. 
 
 With golden fingers, light and warm. 
 
 It dallied with her raven hair ; 
 It kissed her faded lip and cheek, 
 
 As if the flush of life was there. 
 
 (109) 
 
110 THE SUNBEAM. 
 
 It spread above her pillowed head 
 The glory of its gilded wing, 
 
 And whispered to her as it fled, 
 " I'll come to thee again in Spring. 
 
 " When thou art laid within the earth, 
 By all save loving hearts forgot, 
 
 I'll strew thy grave with violets fair. 
 And woo the wild-bird near the spot. 
 
 " And all day long my happy smile 
 
 Shall cheer thy lone and peaceful bed ; 
 
 I'll be for thee a shining link 
 
 Between the living and the dead." 
 
TO A BIGOT. 
 
 You strove in vain, with cunning words, 
 
 And subtle arguments, to gain 
 A convert to your darling creed ; 
 
 Then mocked me with your cold disdain. 
 
 Ah, well — sip from your shallow fount ; 
 
 The heart hath depths you may not know ; 
 And your philosophy would fail, 
 
 Did you but judge of Nature so. 
 
 You do not hate the mountain stream 
 Because it floweth wild and free 
 
 In hidden channels of its own, 
 And finds at last its home, the sea. 
 
 (Ill) 
 
112 TO A BIGOT. 
 
 You do not crush the wayside flower 
 Because it wears a different hue 
 
 From that which decks your garden-walks, 
 And only breathes its sweets for you. 
 
 You do not wound the forest bird 
 Because your caged canary sings 
 
 A sweeter song — you vainly think - 
 Give me the freedom of my wings. 
 
 Then if I soar beyond your flights, 
 
 Or if I keep my lowly nest, 
 What matter, since I am content 
 
 To serve my God as seemeth best ? 
 
HYMN. 
 
 The homeless winds that wander o'er the land ; 
 
 The deep-Yoiced thunder speaking words of 
 
 fire; 
 
 The waves that break in sunshine on the strand. 
 
 Or smite witli storm-paled hands their rocky 
 
 lyre; 
 
 The stars that blossom in the fields of night ; 
 
 The buds that burst in beauty from the sod ; 
 The birds that dip their wings in rainbow 
 light,— 
 
 Are notes in Nature's symphony to God ! 
 
 But as Creation's anthem onward rolls, 
 
 From age to age, in grandeur still the same, 
 
 ^ (113) 
 
114 HYMN. 
 
 We set the seal of Silence on our souls, 
 And sing no praises to His holy name. 
 
 Our eyes are dazzled by the glare of Life ; 
 
 We cannot see the sapphire deeps above ; 
 Our ears are deafened by its ceaseless strife ; 
 
 We cannot hear the angels' songs of love. 
 
 Dust gathers on our mantles hour by hour ; 
 
 We trail our robes in low and sensual things ; 
 We yield our heart- wealth to the Tempter's 
 power, 
 
 And stain the whiteness of the spirit's wings. 
 
 We fling the priceless pearl of Faith away. 
 And count as treasure Earth's corroding 
 dross ; 
 
 We bow to idols formed of fragile clay, 
 
 But twine few garlands for the Savior's cross. 
 
GONE. 
 
 Gone ere the daisies flushed upon the lea, 
 
 Or star-flowers twinkled in the shrouded wood ; 
 
 She prayed to live till then. God's will be done. 
 
 ^' gentlj, gently fold her hands in rest, 
 
 And o'er her pulseless breast strew freshest 
 
 flowers — 
 The mignonette and snow-drop, lilies pure. 
 The amaranth, and every fadeless bud — 
 Fit types of her who passed so soon to God, 
 And of that land where beauty never dies, 
 And love is crowned immortal. 
 
 (115) 
 
THE TWO WORLDS. 
 
 This world is bright and fair, we know ; 
 
 The skies are arched in glory ; 
 The stars shine on, the sweet flowers blow, 
 
 And tell their blessed story. 
 
 But softer than the Summer's breath, 
 
 And fairer than its roses, 
 Will be the clime afar, when Death 
 
 The pearly gate uncloses ; 
 
 The land where broken ties shall twine, 
 And fond hearts will not sever — 
 
 Where Love's pure light shall brighter shine 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
 (116) 
 
TEARS. 
 
 To-day I scanned each face I met 
 
 Within the quiet city ; 
 None with the dews of grief were wet, 
 
 None with the tears of pity. 
 
 Is there no anguish in the world ? 
 
 Is passion calmly sleeping ? 
 Is Misery's tattered banner furled, 
 
 That not an eye is weeping ? 
 
 Alas ! I knew that every breast. 
 
 In hovel or in palace. 
 Must bear the weight of Life's unrest, 
 
 And drink from Sorrow's chalice. 
 
118 TEARS 
 
 But when I thought that Christ had wept, 
 
 The sinless One, the lowly, 
 I felt that tears of earth were kept 
 
 For prayer, they are so holy. 
 
 weary ones ! the Father hears 
 
 Each stricken spirit calling ; 
 His eye beholds your silent tears, 
 
 Though in the darkness falling ; 
 
 And wheresoe'er your lot is cast. 
 
 In crowds or lonely places. 
 Remember that his hand at last 
 
 Shall wipe them from all faces. 
 
DEDICATION HYMN. 
 
 Father, as in days of old, 
 
 When men knew not thy wondrous love, 
 And bowed to gods of wood and gold, 
 
 Thou rulest on thy throne above ; 
 Thou art tlie same unchanging Friend, 
 And thy almighty arms defend. 
 
 Thy hand still guides each rolling world. 
 And stays the tempest's awful wrath, 
 
 And on tiie bannered clouds unfurled, 
 Marks out the lightning's lurid path ; 
 
 It weighs the mountains, holds the sea, 
 
 And stretches through Infinity. 
 
 Ah, little human hands can do 
 
 When measured by the matchless power 
 
 (119) 
 
120 DEDICATION HYMN, 
 
 That raised the hills, and arched the blue 
 Wide heavens that bless us every hour ; 
 That made our frames, sustains our lives, 
 And through all earthly change survives. 
 
 Yet, Lord, we offer to thee now 
 
 This temple built on hallowed ground ; 
 
 0, bless its walls ! for while we bow. 
 The sainted dead seem lingering round, 
 
 As if with us they hither came. 
 
 To own this tribute to thy name. 
 
THE BALLAD OF RUTH BLAY. 
 
 An old lady, who was present at the execution of Ruth Blay, 
 said, as Ruth was carried through the streets, her shrieks 
 filled the air. She was dressed in silk, and was driven under 
 the gallows in a cart. Public sympathy was awakened for her, 
 and her friends had procured from the governor a reprieve, 
 which would have soon resulted in her pardon ; for circum- 
 stances afterwards showed that her concealed child was proba- 
 bly still-born, and she was no murderess. The hour for her 
 execution arrived, and the sheriff, not wishing, it is said, to be 
 late to his dinner, ordered the cart to be driven away, and the 
 unfortunate woman was left hanging from the gallows, a sacri- 
 fice to misguided judgment. If we are rightly informed, she 
 was a girl of good education for her day, having been a school- 
 mistress. The indignation of the populace can hardly be con- 
 ceived when it was ascertained that a reprieve from the gov- 
 ernor came a few minutes after her spirit had been hastened 
 away. They gathered that evening around the residence of 
 Sheriff Packer, and an efHgy was there erected, bearing this in- 
 scription : — 
 
 Am T to lose my dinner 
 
 This woman for to hang? 
 
 Come, draw away the cart, my boys ; 
 
 Don't stop to say amen. 
 
 — Rambles About Portsmouth. 
 
 (121) 
 
122 THE BALLAD OF RUTH BLAY. 
 
 In the worn and dusty annals 
 Of our old and quiet town, 
 
 With its streets of leafy beauty, 
 And its houses quaint and brown, 
 
 With its dear associations. 
 
 Hallowed by the touch of Time,— 
 
 You may read this thrilling legend. 
 This sad tale of wrong and crime. 
 
 In the drear month of December, 
 Ninety years ago to-day. 
 
 Hundreds of the village people 
 Saw the hanging of Ruth Blay ;- 
 
 Saw her, clothed in silk and satin, 
 Borne beneath the gallows-tree. 
 
 Dressed as in her wedding garments. 
 Soon the bride of Death to be ; — 
 
THE BALLAD OF RUTH BLAY. 123 
 
 Saw her tears of shame and anguisli, 
 Heard her shrieks of wild despair 
 
 Echo through the neighboring woodlands, 
 Thrill the clear and frosty air ; — 
 
 Till their hearts were moved to pity 
 
 At her fear and agony : 
 *' Doomed to die," they said, " unjustly, 
 
 Weak, but innocent is she." 
 
 When at last, in tones of warning. 
 From its high and airy tower, 
 
 Slowly, with its tongue of iron. 
 Tolled the bell the fatal hour. 
 
 Like the sound of distant billows. 
 When the storm is wild and loud, 
 
 Breaking on the rocky headlands. 
 Ran a murmur through the crowd. 
 
124 THE BALLAD OF RUTH BLAY. 
 
 And a voice among them shouted, 
 "• Pause before tlie deed is done ; 
 
 We have asked reprieve and pardon 
 For the poor, misguided one." 
 
 But these words of Sheriff Packer 
 Rang above the swelling noise : 
 
 " Must I wait and lose my dinner ? 
 Draw away the cart, my boys ! " 
 
 Fold thy hands in prayer, woman ! 
 
 Take thy last look of the sea ; 
 Take thy last look of the landscape ; 
 
 God be merciful to thee ! 
 
 Stifled groans, a gasp, a shudder, 
 And the guilty deed was done ; 
 
 On a scene of cruel murder 
 Coldly looked the Winter sun. 
 
THE BALLAD OF RUTH BLAY. 
 
 125 
 
 Then the people, pale with horror, 
 Looked with sudden awe behind, 
 
 As a field of grain in Autumn 
 Turns before a passing wind ; 
 
 For distinctly in the distance. 
 In the long and frozen street. 
 
 They could hear the ringing echoes 
 Of a horse's sounding feet. 
 
 Nearer came the sound and louder. 
 Till a steed with panting breath. 
 
 From its sides the white foam dripping, 
 Halted at the scene of death ; 
 
 And a messenger alighted, 
 
 Crying to the crowd, " Make way ! 
 This I bear to Sheriff Packer ; 
 
 'Tis a pardon for Ruth Blay ! " 
 
126 THE BALLAD OF RUTH BLAY. 
 
 But they answered not nor heeded. 
 For the last fond hope had fled ; 
 
 In then- deep and speechless sorrow, 
 Pointmg only to the dead. 
 
 And that night, with burning bosoms. 
 
 Muttering curses fierce and loud, 
 At the house of Sheriff Packer 
 
 Gathered the indignant crowd, — 
 
 Shouting, as upon a gallows 
 
 A grim effigy they bore, 
 " Be the name of Thomas Packer 
 
 A reproach forevermore ! " 
 
SONG OF THE SKATERS. 
 
 Though winter winds are whistling loud, 
 
 And skies look cold and gray, 
 Though earth lies mute beneath her shroud. 
 The skaters ! what care they ? 
 A happy throng, 
 With mirth and song. 
 O'er fields of ice we swiftly glide. 
 As sea-birds sail above the tide. 
 
 0, well we know the winter hours 
 
 Fly faster as we sing — 
 That sooner come the birds and flowers 
 And loveliness of Spring ; 
 So, night or day, 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 (127) 
 
128 SONG OP THE SKATERS. 
 
 O'er crystal plains, with mirth and song, 
 We speed, we speed like the wind along ! 
 
 The heated room, the crowded hall, 
 
 Where pride and fashion meet. 
 While waves of music rise and fall 
 In time to dancing feet — 
 We seek not these ; 
 Give us the breeze, 
 And the gleaming floor o'er which we go 
 Like arrows shot from the hunter's bow. 
 
 Then loud the stormy winds may blow. 
 
 And skies look cold and gray ; 
 Then earth may wear her robe of snow — 
 We'll laugh the hours away ! 
 With mirth and song, 
 A merry throng. 
 O'er fields of ice we'll swiftly glide, 
 As sea-birds sail above the tide. 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 October, ruddy-cheeked, comes o'er the plains, 
 And as with rustling step it speeds along. 
 Its feet beat music to the harvest song. 
 Far echoing loud and clear, as loaded wains 
 Bear on the golden grain 'neath sheltering 
 eaves. 
 The woodlands now are tinged with gorgeous 
 
 dyes. 
 And seem to borrow from the sunset skies 
 Their varied tints : but soon, too soon, the 
 leaves 
 Will fall like tears above the Summer's grave. 
 The lingering birds will sing their parting 
 
 lay, 
 And o'er this brightness withering to decay, 
 
 9 (129) 
 
130 OCTOBER, 
 
 The chill November blast will beat and rave, 
 0, fading glories of the Autumn hour, 
 How like ye are to man's vain pride and 
 power ! 
 
SONNET. 
 
 Night and its dews come silently to earth, 
 Like kindred mourners to the grave of Day ; 
 The stars look on with pale and trembling ray, 
 As if through tears to watch them on their 
 way. 
 
 0, holy Night, what thoughts awake to birth, 
 That slumber in the day, amid its din. 
 And restless strife for gain, its glare and sin ! 
 But Night, care-soothing Night, 0, I would 
 win 
 
 Thy Crown of Peace, and wear it on my brow ; 
 Here at thy starry throne I bend my knee, 
 All weak and humbled. I look up to thee, 
 
 And bless thee for the joy thou giv'st me now — 
 A joy so hushed and deep, I tremble, lest 
 Dream-like, it fade away within my breast. 
 
SONNET 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP A CHILD. 
 
 Before me, in the cold, white arms of Death, 
 He lies in dreamless slumber ; on his breast 
 His hands are folded peacefully in rest, 
 
 And through his pale lips steals no gentle 
 breath ; 
 Unearthly beauty dwells upon his brow. 
 
 And lovelier seem his closed eyes the while, 
 
 Than when they kindled at a mother's smile. 
 beauteous child, Death is thy mother now. 
 
 And she hath charmed thee to a halcyon 
 sleep. 
 And waits to lay thee in thy little bed 
 Among the flowers ; above the sinless dead 
 
 My tears are falling, yet I only weep 
 
 ~~ (132) 
 

 
 SONNET. 133 
 
 To think that when to thee, Death, my soul 
 
 is given, 
 It will not soar on such a stainless wing to 
 
 Heaven. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 TO J. G. W. 
 
 The world is wanting in great souls like thine, 
 For thou art one, wlio, scorning hate and 
 
 blame, 
 Dost dare to battle in dear Freedom's name, 
 As if thy heart was mailed with power divine. 
 
 Thou art a hater of all human wrong. 
 And thy barbed thoughts at Tyranny are 
 
 hurled. 
 Thou break'st the silence of the slumbering 
 world. 
 With sounding notes of deep and burning 
 song, 
 Unnerving arms that wield Oppression's rod ; 
 Or with the music of some gentler strain, 
 
 (134)"^ 
 
SONNET. 135 
 
 Thou steaFst from life its weariness and pain. 
 Poet ! thou hast gained the smile of God, 
 And won on earth a high and star-like name, 
 To shine forever in the sky of Fame. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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