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Where'er a human spirit strives And years of misery and sin After a life more true and fair,

Furl off, and leave her heaven blue. There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks

Outwearied in the drifting snow, Where'er a single slave doth pine,

Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks Where'er one man may help an. No longer of its hopeless woe :

other, — Thank God for such a birthright, Old fields, and clear blue summer days, brother, —

Old meadows, green with grass, and That spot of earth is thine and mine!

trees There is the true man's birthplace grand, That shimmer through the trembling His is a world-wide fatherland!

haze

And whiten in the western breeze, THE FORLORN.

Old faces, all the friendly past . The night is dark, the stinging sleet, Rises within her heart again,

Swept by the bitter gusts of air, And sunshine from her childhood cast Drives whistling down the lonely street, Makes summer of the icy rain.

And glazes on the pavement bare. The street-lamps flare and struggle dim

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow,

E Through the gray sleet-clouds as they

| From man's humanity apart,

She hears old footsteps wandering slow pass, Or, governed by a boisterous whim,

Through the lone chambers of the Drop down and rustle on the glass.

heart. One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Outside the porch before the door,

Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, And, as about her heart they whirl, She lies, no longer foul and poor,

Her tattered cloak more tightly draws. No longer dreary and alone. The flat brick walls look cold and bleak,

Next morning something heavily Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; Against the opening door did weigh, Yet dares she not a shelter seek,

And there, from sin and sorrow free, Though faint with hunger and disease.

A woman on the threshold lay.
The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare,
And, piercing through her garments A smile upon the wan lips told
thin,

That she had found a calm release, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there And that, from out the want and cold,

Makes colder the cold heart within. The song had borne her soul in peace.

She lingers where a ruddy glow

For, whom the heart of man shuts out, Streams outward through an open Sometimes the heart of God takes in, shutter,

And fences them all round about Adding more bitterness to woe,

With silence mid the world's loud din ; More loneness to desertion utter. One half the cold she had not felt

And one of his great charities
Until she saw this gush of light

Is Music, and it doth not scorn
Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt |To close the lids upon the eyes
Its slow way through the deadening

Of the polluted and forlorn ;
night.

Far was she from her childhood's home, She hears a woman's voice within,

Farther in guilt had wandered thence, Singing sweet words her childhood Yet thither it had bid her come knew,

To die in maiden innocence.

MIDNIGHT

| We need her more on our poor earth

Than thou canst need in heaven with The moon shines white and silent

thee : On the mist, which, like a tide She hath her wings already, I Of some enchanted ocean,

Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly. O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Then, God, take me! We shall be near, Silently far and wide.

More near than ever, each to each:

Her angel ears will find more clear A vague and starry magic

My heavenly than my earthly speech ; Makes all things mysteries,

And still, as I draw nigh to thee, And lures the earth's dumb spirit Her soul and mine shall closer be.

Up to the longing skies, – I seem to hear dim whispers, And tremulous replies.

THE HERITAGE.
The fireflies o'er the meadow

THE rich man's son inherits lands,
In pulses come and go;

And piles of brick, and stone, and The elm-trees' heavy shadow

gold, Weighs on the grass below; And he inherits soft white hands, And faintly from the distance

And tender flesh that fears the cold, The dreaming cock doth crow. Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,
All things look strange and mystic, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The very bushes swell
And take wild shapes and motions,

The rich man's son inherits cares ;
As if beneath a spell;

The bank may break, the factory burn, They seem not the same lilacs

A breath may burst his bubble shares, From childhood known so well. And soft white hands could hardly

earn The snow of deepest silence

A living that would serve his turn; O'er everything doth fall,

A heritage, it seems to me, So beautiful and quiet,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
And yet so like a pall,
As if all life were ended,

The rich man's son inherits wants,
And rest were come to all.

His stomach craves for dainty fare ;

With sated heart, he hears the pants O wild and wondrous midnight,

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, There is a might in thee

And wearies in his easy-chair ;
To make the charmën body

A heritage, it seems to me,
Almost like spirit be,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
And give it some faint glimpses
Of immortality!

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
A PRAYER

King of two hands, he does his part

In every useful toil and art;
God! do not let my loved one die,

A heritage, it seems to me,
But rather wait until the time A king might wish to hold in fee.
That I am grown in purity

Enough to enter thy pure clime, What doth the poor man's son inherit ! Then take me, I will gladly go,

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, So that my love remain below!

A rank adjudged by toil.won merit,

Content that from employment springs, 0, let her stay! She is by birth

A heart that in his labor sings ; What I through death must learn to A heritage, it seems to me, be;

| A king might wish to hold in fee.

Foam and spray drive back to leeward,

And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,

Through the breakers all alone.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?

A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

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,

white hands _ This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, 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 be

rast fragrant and be. nign ; 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;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,

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,
Ever to this sick heart fold him,

Be the spirit of his song?
Touch not, sea, the blessed letters

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.”

THE ROSE: A BALLAD.

In his tower sat the poet

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, O sea ! the tender blossom

That hath lain against my breast;
On thy black and angry bosom

It will find a surer rest.
Life is vain, and love is hollow,

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.

III.
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 night. 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. “Life is joy, and love is power,

Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower

When we toil for all our kind. 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.

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