Old faces, -all the friendly past Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of the heart. Outside the porch before the door, No longer dreary and alone. Next morning something heavily 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, MIDNIGHT. THE moon shines white and silent A vague and starry magic The fireflies o'er the meadow The dreaming cock doth crow. All things look strange and mystic, From childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence O'er everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet, And yet so like a pall, As if all life were ended, And rest were come to all. O wild and wondrous midnight, 1842. A PRAYER. GOD! do not let my loved one die, Enough to enter thy pure clime, O, let her stay! She is by birth What I through death must learn to be; We need her more on our poor earth, Than thou canst need in heaven with thee: She hath her wings already, I 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. What 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 A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit? A hear that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, 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 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; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. Hate and scorn and hunger follow 11. Stands a maiden, on the morrow, 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." III. In his tower sits the poet, With a wonder sweet and dim. Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, |