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“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.' And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above. 0, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died !
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
To a holy, calm delight;
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Dance upon the parlour wall
Enter at the open door;
Come to visit me once more;
Noble longings for the strife,
Weary with the march of life!
Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and
olden, One who dwelleth by the castled
Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue
and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do
shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our
history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful
mystery, Like the burning stars, which they
beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold
wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets
under us Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation Written all over this great world of
ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,—these golden
flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self ame, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and
heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight
shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver
And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous
tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain
issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more
than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same
powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us spring is Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er
flowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden
corn; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned
field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's
wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the
brink Of sequestered pools in woodland
valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to
drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in
stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling
towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of
Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul
like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive rea
sons, How akin they are to human things.
THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous
tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
The army of the dead.
The spectral camp was seen,
The river flowed between.
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
On the alarmed air.
The troubled army fled;
The ghastly host was dead.
man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and
Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Portentous through the night.
The spectral camp is seen,
Flows the River of Life between.
In the army of the grave;
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep church
bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
The spectral camp is filed;
Our ghastly fears are dead.
And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No mist or stain !
And the forests utter a moan,
“Vex not his ghost!' Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
Sweep the red leaves away!
And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE
DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared !
Solemnly and slow;
A sound of woe!
The winds, like anthems, roll ;
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
All in vain !
The foolish, fond Old Year,
A king,-a king!
Bids the old man rejoice!
Gentle and low.
To the voice gentle and low
Do not laugh at me!"
L'ENVOI. Ye voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart
repose ! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, “Be of good cheer!”
Ye sounds, so low and calm,
Tongues of the dead, not lost,
(WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING MY COLLEGE LIFE, AND ALL OF
THEM BEFORE THE AGE OF NINETEEN.]
WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN Winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the
gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill
That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert
woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute
springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow
lay, And winds were soft, and woods were
green, And the song ceased not with the day. But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your
crowd ; And gathering winds,lin hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.
I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with
bright forms, Nor dark
and many-folded clouds fore
tell The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and
thrives; Though stricken to the heart with
Winter's cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and
coloured wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that
moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills, "he silver woods with light, the green
slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And, when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching
far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her
horn, And twinkles many a star.
Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling
shadows throw; And the fair trees look over, side by
side, And see themselves below.
AN APRIL DAY. When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned
again, 'T'is sweet to visit the still wood, where
springs The first flower of the plain.
Sweet April !-many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are
wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn
brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
up her purple wing, and in the vales
O what a glory doth this world put on
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN
NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
The blood-red banner, that with
prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nun's sweet hymn was heard
Proudly o'er the good and brave;