Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly.

Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine.
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

FLOWERS

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine:-
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours: Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part
Of the self-same universal being,

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gayly in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming,
Workings are they of the self-same power,
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;
Others, their blue eyes with fears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield:

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of birds and beasts alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;
In the cottage of the rudest peasant.

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like
wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.
And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleagured the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
Nor drum, nor sentry's pace:
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But, when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army йed:

Uprose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read. in the marvellous heart of man,

That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan,
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light.
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The sceptral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning-star, Our ghostly fears are dead.

To the crimson woods he saith,

To the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,"Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies:

No stain from its breath is spread
Over the grassy skies,

No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one that crieth
In the wilderness alone,

"Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O soul! could thus decay,

And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;

And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away
Kyrie, elyson!
Christe, eleyson!

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 Avranches, on a similar occasion, "I cannot be displeased 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."

forms,

Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its 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.

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 mellowed richness on the clustered trees,
And from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And, dipping in warn light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
The gentle Wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales
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
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
From cottage-roofs the warbling blue-bird sings;
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

Oh, 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.

WHEN 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 merry 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 car
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.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
"Take thy banner! and, beneath

The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it!-till our homes are free!
Guard it!-God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rash of steeds and men,"
Ilis right hand will shield thee then.
"Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him!-By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,

Spare him!-he our love hath shared!
Spare him!-as thou wouldst be spared!

"Take thy banner!-and if e'er

Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee."
The warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.

I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me;-bathed in light

They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,

And, in their fading-glory, shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown.

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance.

And rocking on the cliff was left
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft,
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade;
Where, upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash,

I saw the current whirl and flash.-
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach

The woods were bending with a silent reach,
E

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows;

Where, underneath the white-thorn in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.'
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves,
In the green valley, where the silver brook
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stone with end-
less laughter.

And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here,

amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted

bards

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds. and gentle winds,-
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening goes,-
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky
looks in

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains,-and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and in these wayward days of youth,

My busy fancy oft embodies it,

As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the

clouds

When the sun sets. Within her eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us,-and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.
ON sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowy light of evening fell:
And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory, that the wood receives,
At Sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes,

By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, grey forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.
They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,

And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head;
But, as the summer fruit decays,
So died he in those naked days.

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Covered the warrior, from within
Its heavy folds the weapons, made
For the hard toils of war, were laid:
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds.
And the broad belt of shells and beads
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts. and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.
Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unréined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief, they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed;
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again."