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Deep and still, that gliding stream
Then why pause with indecision,
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
O, thou child of many prayers !
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
Bear a lily in thy hand;
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
The shades of night were falling fast,
His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
In happy homes he saw the light
“ Try not the Pass !” the old man said; “ Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” And loud that clarion voice replied,
64 O stay,” the maiden said, " and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
“ Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
At break of day, as heavenward
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
There in the twilight cold and gray,
[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea
in the latter part of October. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death.
Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my admi. ration for a great and good man.]