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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, Then take me, I will gladly go, So that my love remain below! 0, 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 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 HERITAGE. 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. The rich man's son inherits cares ; The bank may break, the factory
burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly
earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 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
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.
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, ( 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 kud. Hope is truth, - the future giveth
More than present takes away, And the soul 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.
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,
Be the spirit of his song?
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.”
FAJR 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.
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 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
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,