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Ever drifting, drifting, drifting,

On the shifting
Currents of the restless heart;
Till at length in books recorded,

They, like hoarded
Household words, no more depart.

L' ENVOI.

YE voices, that arose
After the Evening's close,
And whispered to my restless heart repose !
Go, breathe it in the ear
Of all who doubt and fear,
And say to them, “Be of good cheer!"

Ye sounds, so low and calm,
That in the groves of balm
Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!

Go, mingle yet once more
With the perpetual roar
Of the pine forest, dark and hoar!

Tongues of the dead, not lost,
But speaking from death's frost,
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!

Glimmer, as funeral lamps,
Amid the chills and damps
Of the vast plain where death encamps !

EARLIER POEMS.

[These poems were written, for the most part, during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names, and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Ayranches, on a similar occasion: “I cannot be dis. pleased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together, in a more decorous garb.”]

AN APRIL DAY

WHEN the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

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I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws it sustenance, and thrives ;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly warbled song,
Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

And, when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,

And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side,

And see themselves below.

Sweet April 1-many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumin brouglit,

Life's golden fruit is shed.

AUTUMN.

With what a glory comes and goes the year;
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.

Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings ;
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy fail.

O what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings,
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

WOODS IN WINTER.

WAEN winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke,

The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green,

And the song ceased not with the day. But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear

Has grown familiar with your song ; I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF

BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The blood-red banner, that with prayer
Had been consecrated there.

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