For see! I have found in this rare ground
An eloquent green old coin,

With turquoise rust on its Emperor's bust,-
Some Cæsar, august Lord;

And the legend terse, and the classic reverse, "Victory, valor's reward!

Victory, yes! and happiness,

Kind comrade, to me and to you,

When such rich spoil has crowned our tou
And proved the day-dream true;

With hearty acclaim how we hail'd by his name
The Cæsar of that coin,

And told with a shout his titles out,

And drank his health in wine!

And then how blest the noon-day rest
Reclined on a grassy bank,

With hungry cheer and the brave old beer
Better than Odin drank;

And the secret balm of the spirit at calm,
And poetry, hope, and health,

Aye, have I not found in that rare ground
A mine of more than wealth?

WISDOM.

Ir is the way we go, the way of life,
A drop of pleasure in a sea of pain,

A grain of peace amid a load of strife,

With toil and grief, and grief and toil again: Yea: - but for this; the firm and faithful breast, Bolder than lion's, confident and strong, That never doubts its birthright to be blest, And dreads no evil while it does no wrong:

This, this is wisdom, manful and serene,
Towards God all penitence and prayer and trust,
But to the troubles of this shifting scene

Simply courageous and sublimely just:

Be then such wisdom thine, my heart within, —
There is no foe nor woe nor grief but - Sin.

THE HEART'S HUSBAND.

FOR MUSIC.

Go, leave me to weep for the years that are past,
For my youth, and its friends, and its pleasures all dead,
My spring and my summer are fading too fast,

And I long to live over the days that are fled;

It is not for sorrows or sins on my track

That I mournfully cast my fond yearnings behind, — — Ah, no,- - from affection I love to look back,

It is only my heart that has wedded my Mind.

And still, let the Mind that has married a Heart
Though loving, be strong as a King in his pride,

And ever command that all weakness depart

From the realm that he rules in the soul of his bride; For what, if all time and all pleasures decay?

My Mind is myself, an invincible chief,

Like a child's broken toys are the years past away,

And my Heart, half-ashamed, has forgotten her grief.

PROPHETS - WHEAT-CORN, AND CHAFF.

PROPHETS.

PROPHETS at home, I smile to note your wrongs;

How scantly praised at each ancestral hearth Are ye, caress'd by million hearts and tongues, And full of honors over half the earth:

O petty jealousies and paltry strife!

The ittle minds that chronicle a birth
Stood once for teachers in the task of life;
But, as the child of genius grew apace,
Dismay'd at his gigantic lineaments,
They feared to find his glory their disgrace,
His mind their master: so their worldly aim
Is still to vex him with discouragements,
To check the springtide budding of his fame,
And keep it down to save themselves a name

WHEAT-CORN, AND CHAFF.

My little learning fadeth fast away,

And all the host of words and forms and rules
Bred in my teeming youth of books and schools
Dwindle to less and lighter; night and day
I dream of tasks undone, and lore forgot,

Seeming some sailor in the "ship of fools,"
Some debtor owing what he cannot pay,
Some conner of old themes remembered not.
Despise such small oblivion; 'tis the lot

Of human life, amid its chance and change
To learn, and then unlearn; to seek and find,
And then to lose familiars grown quite strange:
Store up, store wisdom's corn in heart and mind,
But fling the chaff on every winnowing wind.

315

THE HAPPY MAN.

A MAN of no regrets,

He goes his sunny way
Owing the past no load of debts
The present cannot pay:
He wedded his first love,
Nor loved another since;
He sets his nobler hopes above;
He reigns in joy a Prince!

A man of no regrets,

He hath no cares to vex,
No secret griefs, nor mental nets
Nor troubles to perplex;
Forgiveness to his sin,

And help in every need,

Blessing around, and peace within,
Crown him a King indeed!

A man of no regrets,
Upon his Empire free

The sun of gladness never sets,

Then who so rich as he?

Yea, GoD upon my heart

Hath poured all blessings down; Then yield to Him, with all thou art The homage of thy crown!

HERALDIC.

HIGH in Battle's antlered hall
Ancient as its Abbey wall,

Hangs a helmet, brown with rust,
Cobweb'd o'er, and thick in dust
High it hangs, 'mid pikes and bows
Scowling still at spectral foes,
Proud and stern, with vizor down,
And fearful in its feudal frown.
When I saw what ail'd thee, heart,
Wherefore should I stop and start?
That old helm, with that old crest,
Is more to me than all the rest;
Battered, broken, though it be,
That old helm is all to me.
Yon black greyhound knoweth well:
Many a tale hath it to tell

How in troublous times of old

Sires of mine, with bearing bold,
Bearing bold, but much mischance,

Sway'd the sword, or poised the lance,-
Much mischance, desponding still,
They fought and fell, foreboding ill:
And their scallop, gules with blood,
Fessed amid the azure flood,
Show'd the pilgrim, slain afar
O'er the sea, in Holy War:

While that faithful greyhound black
Vainly watch d the wild boar's track;

And the legend and the name

Proved all lost but hope and fame,

Tout est perdu, fors l'honneur,

Mas "L'Espoir est ma force" sans peur.

Corruption, in the course of generations, has converted this piece of chiva.rous

despondency into the Author's modernized and ineuphonious name.