above

The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple

rhyme,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May !

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

nest !

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining,

Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

GOD'S ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre

It is just,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;

And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place, where human harvests grow!

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.

RIVER that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou has taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long,

browned

Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf !
The Battle of our Life is brief,
The alarm,-the struggle, -the re-
lief,-

Then sleep we side by side.

Of household fires gleam warm and bright;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!

"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, Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast !" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch !

Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last Goodnight,

A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled
air,

Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a failing star,
Excelsior !

[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 admiration for a great and good man.]

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING.

THE pages of thy book I read,

And as I close each one,

My heart, responding, ever said,

'Servant of God! well done!"

Well done! Thy words are great and bold;

At times they seem to me,
Like Luther's, in the days of old,
Half-battles for the free.

Go on, until this land revokes

The old and chartered Lie,

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams

The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,

They held him by the hand!A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand.

yokes

Insult humanity.

A voice is ever at thy side

Speaking in tones of might,
Like the prophetic voice, that cried
To John in Patmos, Write !"

Write and tell out this bloody tale;
Record this dire eclipse,
This Day of Wrath, this Endless
Wail,

This dread Apocalypse!

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand.

Along the Niger's bank;

His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

Smiting his stallion's flank.