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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 !

as

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of Day are numbered,

And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light

Dance upon the parlour wall
Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;
He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,

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

lining,
Buds that open only to decay;

And with childlike, credulous affection

We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better

land.

born;

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,
There stood, as in an awful dream,

The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,

The spectral camp was seen,
And with a sorrowful, deep sound,

The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,

No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,

As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell

On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley, fast and far,

The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,

The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of

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,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam

Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground

The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,

In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.

wan

And when the solemn and deep church

bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is filed;
Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist or stain !
Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,

“Vex not his ghost!' Then comes, with an awful roar,

Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest

Sweep the red leaves away!
Would the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,

And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast,

There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!

Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE

DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared !
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,

Sorely,—sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,

A sound of woe!
Through woods and mountain passes

The winds, like anthems, roll ;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, “Pray for this poor soul,

Pray,--Pray!”
And the hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers ;-
But their prayers are all in vain,

All in vain !
There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with

heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,

A king,-a king!
Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! O, the old man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,

Gentle and low.
To the crimson woods he saith, -

To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's

breath,—
“Pray do not mock me so!

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,
That in the groves of balm
Seemed to me like an angel's psalm !
Go, mingle yet once more
With the perpetual roar
Of the pine forest, dark and hoar!

Tongues of the dead, not lost,
But speaking from death's frost,
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!
Glimmer, as funeral lamps,
Amid the chills and damps
Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

7

EARLIER POEMS.

(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.

year!

AUTUMN.
With what a glory comes and goes

the
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out.
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts

up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent !
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN

NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S

BANNER
WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowlèd head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung

The blood-red banner, that with

prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nun's sweet hymn was heard

the while,
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.
“Take thy banner! May it wave

Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,

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