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Old faces, - all the friendly past
Rises within her heart again, And sunshine froin her childhood cast
Makes summer of the icy rain. Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow,
From all humanity apart, She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of the
Outside the porch before the door,
Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, She lies, no longer foul and poor,
No longer dreary and alone.
Next morning something heavily
Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free,
A woman on the threshold lay.
A vague and starry magic
Makes all things mysteries, And lures the earth's dumb spirit
Up to the longing skies, –
And tremulous replies.
In pulses come and go;
Weighs on the grass below; And faintly from the distance
The dreaming cock doth crow. All things look strange and mystic,
The very bushes swell
As if beneath a spell,
Froin childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence
O'er everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet,
And yet so like a pall,
And rest were come to all.
There is a might in thee
Almost like spirit be,
A smile upon the wan lips told
That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold,
The song had borne her soul in peace.
For, whom the heart of man shuts out,
Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence 'mid the world's loud
din; And one of his great charities
Is Music, and it doth not scorn To close the lids upon the eyes
Of the polluted and forlorn ;
Far was she from her childhood's home,
Farther in guilt had wandered thence, Yet thither it had bid her come To die in maiden innocence.
But rather wait until the time
Enough to enter thy pure clime,
What I through death must learn to We need her more on our poor earth, Than thou canst need in heaven with
thee : She hath her wings already, I Must burst this earth-shell'ere I fly.
THE moon shines white and silent
On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean,
O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide.
Then, God, take me! We shall be
near, More near than ever, each to each : Her angel ears will find more clear
My heavenly than my earthly speech; And still, as I draw nigh to thee, Her soul and mine shall closer be.
The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and
gold, And he inherits soft white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
A heritage, it seems to me,
A patience learned of being poor,
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man's son ! there is a toil
That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil,
But only whiten, soft white hands,
This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to be, Worth being rich to hold in fee. O poor man's son! scorn not thy state ;
There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great ;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last ; Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past ;
THE ROSE: A BALLAD.
The rich man's son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare ; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms
bare, And wearies in his easy-chair ; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. Whai doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art ; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Cortert that from employment
Gazing on the roaring sea, “Take this rose," he sighed, “and
throw it Where there's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth
And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease. Take, O sea ! the tender blossom
That hath lain against my breast;
It will find a surer rest.
Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate and scorn and hunger follow
Him that toileth for his kind.” Forth into the night he hurled it,
And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it
Swift into the hungry dark. Foan and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
Through the breakers all alone.
Strength and wisdom only flower
When we toil for all our kuud. Hope is truth, — the future giveth
More than present takes away, And the 6oul forever liveth
Nearer God from day to day.” Not a word the maiden uttered,
Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek.
A LEGEND OF BRITTANY.
Stands a maiden, on the morrow,
Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow,
Tracing words upon the sand : “Shall I ever then behold him
Who hath been my life so long, Ever to this sick heart fold him,
Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters
I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters
Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it,
But, with omen pure and meet. Brings a little rose, and throws it
Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token,
And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken
With the ocean's fierce unrest. “Love is thine, O heart ! and surely
Peace shall also be thine own For the heart that trusteth purely
Never long can pine alone.”
1. FAIR as a summer dream was Mar.
garet, -Such dream as in a poet's soul might
start, Musing of old loves while the moon
doth set : Her hair was not more sunny than
her heart, Though like a natural golden coronet It circled her dear head with careless
art, Mocking the sunshine, that would fain
have lert To its frank grace a richer ornament.
In his tower sits the poet,
Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it
With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth
With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth
Through the peaceful blue of nigth Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder
Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,
Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. * Lite is joy, and love is power,
Death all fetters doth unbind,
His loved ore's eyes could poet ever
speak, So kind, so dewy, and so deep were
hers, But, while he strives, the choicest
phrase, too weak, Their glad reflection in his spirit
blurs ; As one may see a dream dissolve and
break Out of his grasp when he to tell it
stirs, Like that sad Dryad doomed no more
to bless The mortal who revealed her loveli
Full many a sweet forewarning hath
the mind, Full many a whispering of vague deEre comes the nature destined to unbind Its virgin zone, and all its deeps in
spire, Low stirrings in the leaves, before the
O, what a face was hers to brighten
light, And give back sunshine with an