That brings unto the homesick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;

Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse;

Then from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and with expanding views

Beyond the starry pole,

Descries, athwart the abyss of night,
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do;

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease:

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends-such death be mine!

THE GRAVE.

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep

Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose
Than summer evening's latest sigh,
That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.

For misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild:
I perish; O, my mother earth!

Take home thy child!

On thy dear lap these limbs, reclined,
Shall gently moulder into thee;

Nor leave one wretched trace behind
Resembling me.

Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear;
My pulse, my brain runs wild-I rave:
Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?
"I am the Grave!

The Grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide :
O listen! I will speak no more:

Be silent, pride!

Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn,
The victim of consuming care?
Is thy distracted conscience torn

By fell despair?

Do foul misdeeds of former times
Wring with remorse thy guilty breast?
And ghosts of unforgiven crimes

Murder thy rest?

Lashed by the furies of the mind,

From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee?

Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find

A friend in me.

By all the terrors of the tomb,

Beyond the power of tongue to tell!
By the dread secrets of my womb!
By death and hell!

I charge thee live! repent and pray;
In dust thine infamy deplore;
There yet is mercy; go thy way,

And sin no more.

To friendship didst thou trust thy fame?
And was thy friend a deadly foe,
Who stole into thy breast, to aim
A surer blow?

Live! and repine not o'er his loss,
A loss unworthy to be told:
Thou hast mistaken sordid dross

For friendship's gold.

Go, seek that treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm.

Did woman's charms thy youth beguile,
And did the fair one faithless prove?
Hath she betrayed thee with her smile,
And sold thy love?

Live! 'twas a false, bewildering fire:
Too often love's insidious dart

Thrills the fond soul with wild desire,
But kills the heart.

Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear,
To gaze on listening beauty's eye!

To ask-and pause in hope and fear
Till she reply!

A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
A brighter maiden faithful prove;
Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest
In woman's love.

Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be,
Confess thy folly-kiss the rod,
And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of God.

A bruised reed he will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;
He wounds them for his mercy's sake;
He wounds to heal!

Humbled beneath his mighty hand,

Prostrate his Providence adore:

'Tis done!-Arise! He bids thee stand,

The soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image, freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine,
A star of day!

The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;

The soul, immortal as its sire,

Shall never die."

THE FIELD IS THE WORLD.

Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thine hand;

To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broad-cast it o'er the land.

Beside all waters sow;

The highway furrows stock;

Drop it where thorns and thistles grow;
Scatter it on the rock.

The good, the fruitful ground,

Expect not here nor there;

O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found;
Go forth, then, everywhere.

Thou know'st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;

Grace keeps the precious germs alive,
When and wherever strown.

And duly shall appear,

In verdure, beauty, strength,

The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,
And the full corn at length.

Thou canst not toil in vain :

Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain,
For garners in the sky.

Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,

The angel-reapers shall descend,
And heaven cry-"Harvest home."

THE COMMON LOT.

Once, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man: and who was he?

Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth,
This truth survives alone :

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe-a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffered-but his pangs are o'er:
Enjoyed-but his delights are fled;
Had friends-his friends are now no more;
And foes-his foes are dead.

He loved but whom he loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O she was fair! but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee:
He was whatever thou hast been;
He is-what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons-day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light,

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye

That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace

Than this-there lived a man!

ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

Higher, higher, will we climb,
Up to the mount of glory,

That our names may live through time
In our country's story;