DAYBREAK.

A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for
me.'

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone."
And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day."
It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!"

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing.
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow, the day is near."
It whispered to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming
morn."

It shouted through the belfry tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, Not yet! in quiet lie.'

CATAWBA WINE.

THIS song of mine

Is a Song of the Vine,

To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins

To darken the drear Novembers.

It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel

And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys.

Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang O'er the waves of the Colorado, And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado.

For richest and best

Is the wine of the West,
That grows by the Beautiful River;
Whose sweet perfume

Fills all the room
With a benison on the giver.

And as hollow trees

Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming; So this crystal hive

Is all alive

With a swarming and buzzing and humming.

Very good in its way

Is the Vereznay,

Or the Sillery soft and creamy;
But Catawba wine

Has a taste more divine,
More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.

There grows no vine

By the haunted Rhine,

By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on island or cape,

That bears such a grape

As grows by the Beautiful River.

Drugged is their juice

For foreign use,

When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,

To rack our brains

With the fever-pains

That have driven the old world frantic.

To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,

And after them tumble the mixer ;
For a poison malign

Is such Borgia wine,

Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring

Is the wine I sing,

And to praise it, one needs but name it ; For Catawba wine

Has need of no sign,

No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine.
This greeting of mine,

The winds and the birds shall deliver

To the Queen of the West,
In her garlands dressed,

On the banks of the Beautiful River.

EPIMETHEUS, OR THE POET'S
AFTERTHOUGHT.

HAVE I dreamed? or was it real,
When I saw as in a vision,
When to marches hymeneal,
In the land of the ideal,

Moved by thought o'er fields Ely-
sian?

What are these the guests whose glances

Seemed like sunshine gleaming round

me;

These the wild, bewildered fancies,
That with dithyrambic dances,

As with magic circles, bound me?

Ah! how cold are their caresses!

Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms!

O my songs! whose winsome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures

Fade and perish with the capture?

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden ;
Voices single and in chorus,
Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.

Disenchantment! Disillusion!
Must each noble aspiration
Come at last to this conclusion,
Jarring discord, wild confusion,
Lassitude, renunciation!

Not with steeper fall nor faster

From the sun's serene dominions,

Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster

Icarus fell with shattered pinions!

Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora!

Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora,

If to win thee is to hate thee?

No, not hate thee! for this feeling
Of unrest and long resistance
Is but passionate appealing,
A prophetic whisper stealing

O'er the chords of our existence.
Him whom thou dost once enamour,

Thou, beloved, never leavest;
In life's discord, strife, and clamour,
Still he feels thy spell of glamour;

Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted,

Struggling souls by thee are strength-
ened,

Clouds of fear asunder rifted,
Truth from falsehood cleansed and
sifted

Lives, like days in summer, lengthened.
Therefore art thou ever dearer,

O my Sibyl! my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer, And the unattained seems nearer

When thou fillest my heart with

fever!

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces!

Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces; Let us turn and wander thither.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF

AGASSIZ.

MAY 28, 1857

IT was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying: "Here is a story-book

Thy Father has written for thee."

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy
sledge,

With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door :
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir,

And makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice nor sound betrays
Its deep impassioned gaze.
It comes, the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,—
In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

All things are new; the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ;There are no birds in last year's nest ! All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight! And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For O! it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest ; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest !

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those who in the grave

have sown

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life-alas! no more

their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;