the way,

But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn, She comes to me to-day.

Does she forget the trysts we used to keep,
When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground,
Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep
With threats of silver sound?

Does she forget how shone the happy eyes

When they beheld her, how the eager tongue Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies, To reach her where she sung?

How at her sacred feet I cast me down?

How she upraised me to her bosom fair, And from her garland shred the first light crown That ever pressed my hair?

Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring
Their freshness back: why lingers she so long?
The pulseless air is waiting for her wing,
Dumb with unuttered song.

If tender doubt delay her on the road,
O let her haste to find the doubt belied!
If shame for love unworthily bestowed,

That shame shall melt in pride.

If she but smile, the crystal calm shall break
In music, sweeter than it ever gave,
As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake,
And laughs in every wave.

The ripples of awakened song shall die

Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain,

Until, as once, upon her breast I lie

Pardoned, and loved again!

B. T.

INSCRIPTION.

TO THE MISTRESS OF CEDARCROFT.

1.

HE evening shadows lengthen on the lawn:

Westward, our immemorial chestnuts

stand,

A mount of shade; but o'er the cedars drawn, Between the hedge-row trees, in many a band Of brightening gold, the sunshine lingers on,

And soon will touch our oaks with parting hand: And down the distant valley all is still,

And flushed with purple smiles the beckoning hill.

II.

Come, leave the flowery terrace, leave the beds Where Southern children wake to Northern air:

Let yon mimosas droop their tufted heads,

These myrtle-trees their nuptial beauty wear, And while the dying day reluctant treads

From tree-top unto tree-top, with me share The scene's idyllic peace, the evening's close, The balm of twilight, and the land's repose.

III.

Come, for my task is done: the task that drew My footsteps from the chambers of the Day, — That held me back, Beloved, even from you,

That are my daylight: for the Poet's way Turns into many a lonely avenue

-

Where none may follow. He must sing his lay First to himself, then to the One most dear;

Last, to the world.

Come to my side, and hear!

IV.

The poems ripened in a heart at rest,

A life that first through you is free and strong, Take them and warm them in your partial breast, Before they try the common air of song! Fame won at home is of all fame the best:

Crown me your poet, and the critic's wrong Shall harmless strike where you in love have smiled, Wife of my heart, and mother of my child!

THE POET'S JOURNAL.

FIRST EVENING.

HE day had come, the day of many

years.

My bud of hope, thorned round with guarding fears,

And sealed with frosts of oft-renewed delay, Burst into sudden bloom-it was the day! "Ernest will come!" the early sunbeams cried; "Will come !" was breathed through all the woodlands wide;

"Will come, will come!" said cloud, and brook, and bird;

And when the hollow roll of wheels was heard Across the bridge, it thundered, "He is near!" And then my heart made answer, "He is here!"

Ernest was here, and now the day had gone
Like other days, yet wild and swift and sweet,
And yet prolonged, as if with whirling feet
One troop of duplicated Hours sped on,
And one trod out the moments lingeringly: