SONG.

GIVE me back my heart, fair child;
To you as yet 'twere worth but little,
Half beguiler, half beguiled,

Be you warned, your own is brittle:
I know it by your reddening cheeks,
I know it by those two black streaks
Arching up your pearly brows

In a momentary laughter, Stretched in long and dark repose With a sigh the moment after. "Hid it! dropt it on the moors!

"Lost it and you cannot find it "My own heart I want, not yours:

You have bound and must unbind it. Set it free then, from your net, We will love, sweet--but not yet! Fling it from you; we are strong, Love is trouble, love is folly; Love, that makes an old heart young, Makes a young heart melancholy.

STANZAS.

Young Spring hath dropped the rosebud from her breast

Summer her sun-clad crest:

And Autumn's gorgeous fruits, in vain increased, But spread her funeral feast.

Dark Winter, mailed with ice, and stern and hoar I praise much more

To him this last libation I will pour.

LYCIUS.

LYCIUS! the female race is all the same!

All variable, as the Poets tell us ;

Mad through caprice-half way 'twixt men and children.

Acasta, mildest late of all our maids,
Colder and calmer than a sacred well,

Is now more changed than Spring has changed these thickets:

Hers is the fault, not mine. Yourself shall judge.
From Epidaurus, where for three long days
With Nicias I had stayed, honoring the God,
Last evening we returned. The way was dull,
And vexed with mountains: tired ere long was I
From warding off the oleander boughs

that gloom

Which hangs o'er Adam's tomb?

Over the patriarchal palm and tent

Pushed on, closed backward on my mule and me
The flies maintained a melody unblest;
While Nicias, of his wreath Nemean proud,

Sang of the Satyrs and the Nymphs all day

Past is the Persian chivalry; and past

Old Egypt's lore at last :

Barbaric javelins clang:

Along the wealthy Carthaginian shores

Again the lion roars;

And Rome at last her ancient foe deplores.

Gone is our Arthur; dead the Cid of Spain;
Alfred and Charlemagne.

Where now are Europe's wise and holy kings
"With whom old story rings?"
Where now the mitred martyrs of the Faith,
Martyrs in life and death?
Meek sages, courteous lovers, bards devout,
Scorning the world's vain shout?

Where now that early Church whose anthemed rites

Made Earth like Heaven-her nights Glorious and blest as day with votive lights? Lay down, vainglorious king, for shame lay down Thy sceptre, globe, and crown.

Draw near, my dark-eyed Delphic boy; fill up With Naxian wine my cup.

Lastly, we slept like gods. When morning shone,
So filled was I with weariness and sleep
That as a log till noon I lay; then rose,

And in the bath-room sat. While there I languished

Reading that old, divine and holy tale

Of sad Ismene and Antigone,

Two warm soft hands flung suddenly around me Closed both my eyes; and a clear, shrill, sweet laughter

Told me that she it was, Acasta's self,

That brake upon my dreams. "What would

A second Python. From that theatre
Scooped in the rock the Argive tumult rolled!
Before the fane of Juno seven vast oxen
Lowed loud, denouncing Heaven ere yet they fell:
While from the hill-girt meadows rose a scent
So rich, the salt sea odors vainly strove

To pierce those fumes it curled about my brain,
And sting the nimbler spirits. Nodding I watched
The pale herbs from the parched bank that trailed
Bathing delighted in voluptuous cold,

And scarcely swayed by the slow winding stream.
I heard a sigh-I asked not whence it came.
At last a breeze went by, to glossy waves
Rippling that steely flood; I noted then
The reflex of the poplar stem thereon

Curled into spiral wreaths, and toward me darting
Like a long, shining water-snake: I laughed
To see its restlessness. Acasta cried,
"Read-if you will not talk or look at me!"
Unconsciously I glanced upon the page,
Bent o'er it, and began to chant that chorus,
"Favored by Love are they that love not deeply,"
When leaping from my side she snatched the
book,

Into the river dashed it bounded by,
And, no word spoken, left me there alone.
Lycins! I see you smile; but know you not
Nothing is trifling which the Muse records,
And lovers love to muse on? Let the gods
Act as to them seems fitting. Hermes loved-
Phoebus loved also-but the hearts of gods
Are everlasting like the suns and stars,

Their loves as transient as the clouds. For me
A peaceful life is all I seek, and far

Removed from cares and from the female kind!

A CHARACTER.

SHE Scarce can tell if she have loved or not;
She of her heart no register has kept :
She knows but this, that once too blest her lot
Appeared for earth; and that ere long she wept.
Upon life's daily task without pretence

She moves; and many love her, all revere:
She will be full of joy when summoned hence,
Yet not unhappy seems while lingering here.
If once her breast the storms of anguish tore
On that pure lake no weeds or scum they cast:
Time has ta'en from her much, but given her

more;

And of his gifts the best will be the last. Her parents lie beneath the churchyard grass; On her own strength and foresight she is thrown,

Who, while her brothers played, too timid was To join their sports; and played or sighed alone. Her heart is as a spot of hallowed ground

Filled with old tombs and sacred to the Past, Such as near villages remote is found,

Or rain-washed chancel in some woodland

waste:

It once was pierced each day with some new stone, And thronged with weeping women and sad

men;

But now it lies with grass and flowers o'ergrown, And o'er it pipes the thrush and Iuilds the wren.

THE SISTERS.

"I KNOW not how to comfort thee;
Yet dare not say, Weep on!

I know how little life is worth
When loves gone.

The mighty with the weak czutena,
The many with the few:

The hard and heavy hearts oppress
The tender and the true.

"Had he been capable of love,

His love had clung to thee;

He was too weak a thing to bear
That noble energy.

"Lift, lift your forehead from my lap,
And lay it on my breast:

I too have wept; but you I deemed
Still safe within your nest."

Her words were vain, but not her tears;
The Mourner raised her eyes,
Subdued by the atoning power
Of pitying sympathies:
Subdued at first, ere long consoled,
At last she ceased to moan;
For those who feel another's pain
Will soon forget their own.

O ye whom broken vows bereave,
Your vows to heaven restore :
O ye for blighted love who grieve
Love deeper and love more!
The arrow cannot wound the an
Nor thunder rend the sea,
Nor injury long afflict the heart

That rests, O Love, in thee!

The winds may blow, the waves may swell; But soon those tumults cease,

And the pure element subsides

Into its native peace.

A WAYWARD child, scarce knowing what he wanted,

Ran to one side whilst all his comrades played
And in the sunny ground a berry planted:
An olive-tree uprose; and in its shade,
While summer after summer glowed and panted,
That child's descendants sat. The tree decayed;
And of one polished branch this flute was made,
The sire of all sweet sounds and strains enchanted,
Immortal nurslings of the transient breeze.

That child is dead and gone; that olive now
Is swept away with all its centuries;
Yet this selected fragment of a bough
Survives, and may survive till earth expires
And mortal strains are lost in songs of heavenly
choirs.

KINDLY WINTER.

THE Snow lies deep upon the ground,
In cost of mail the pools are bound;
The hungry rooks in squadrons fly,
And winds are slumbering in the sky.

Drowsily the snow-flakes fall;
The robin on the garden wall
Looks wistful at our window-pane,
The customary crumb to gain.

On barn, and thatch, and leafless tree,
The frost has hung embroidery,
Fringe of ice and pendants fine,
Of filagree and crystalline.

But nought care we, though o'er the wold
The winter lays his finger cold;
We still enjoy the roughest day,
And find December good as May.

Pile up the fire! the winter wind,
Although it nip, is not unkind;
And dark midwinter days can bring
As many pleasures as the spring.

If not the flow'ret budding fair,
And mild effulgence of the air,
They give the glow of indoor mirth,
And social comfort round the hearth.

Pile up the fire! When storms are rude,
We feel the joy of gratitude;
And thankful for the good possess'd,
Have welcomes for the poorest guest.

The gloomy Winter-who is he?
I never saw him on the lea,
I never met him on my path,
Or trow'd old stories of his wrath.

The Winter is a friend of mine,
His step is light, his eyeballs shine;
His cheek is ruddy as the morn,
He carols like the lark in corn.

His tread is brisk upon the snows—
His pulses gallop as he goes;
He hath a smile upon his lips,

With songs and welcome, jests and quips.

A charitable soul is he,

His heart is large, his hand is free; He brings the beggar to his door, And feeds the needy from his store.

The friend of every liv ng thang,
Old Winter-sire of youthful Spring→
The glooms upon his brow that dwell,
Are glories when we know them well.
'Tis he that feeds the April buds,
"Tis he that clothes the Summer woons,
"Tis he makes plump the Autumn grain,
And loads with wealth the creaking wain
Pile up the fire! and ere he go,
Our blessings on his head shall flow.
The hale old Winter, bleak and sere,
The friend and father of the year.

FALLOW.

ALONE, alone, let me wander alone!
There's an odor of hay o'er the woodlands blewo
There's a humming of bees beneath the lime,
And the deep blue heaven of a Southern clime
Is not more beautifully bright

Than this English sky with its islets white,
And its alp-like clouds, so snowy fair!—
The birch-leaves dangle in balmy air;
And the elms and oaks scarce seem to know
When the whispering breezes come or go;
But the bonnie sweet-briar, she knows well;
For she has kissed them—and they tell!
And bear to all the West and South
The pleasant odors of her mouth.
Let me alone to my idle pleasure;
What do I care for toil or treasure?
To-morrow I'll work, if work you crave,
Like a king, a statesman, or a slave:
But not to-day, no! nor to-morrow,
If from my drowsy ease I borrow

No health and strength to bear my boat
Through the great life-ocean where we float.
Under the leaves, amid the grass,
Lazily the day shall pass,

Yet not be wasted. Must I ever
Climb up the hill-tops of Endeavor?
I hate you all, ye musty books!
Ye know not how the morning looks;-
Ye smell of studies long and keen ;-
I'll change the white leaves for the green!
My Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope,
I'll leave them for the grassy slope,
Where other singers, sweet as they,
Chant hymn, and song, and roundelay.
What do I care for Kant or Hegel,

For Leibnitz, Newton, Locke, or Schlegel '
Did they exhaust philosophy?
I'll find it in the earth or sky,

In woodbine wreaths, in ears of corn,
O: flickering shadows of the morn;
And if I gather nothing new,
A least I'll keep my spirits true
Ard bathe my heart in honey dew.

This day I'll neither think nor read
Of great Crimean toil or deed.
Tomorrow, as in days agone,
I'll pray for peace by valor won,
For speedy triumph of the right,

And Earth's repose in Love's own light.
To-day I need a truce myself

From books and men, from care and pelf,
And I will have it in cool lanes,
O'erarching like cathedral fanes,
With elm and beech of sturdy girth;
Or on the bosom of green earth
Amid the daisies ;-dreaming, dozing,
Fallow, fallow, and reposing!

TWO HOUSES.

""TWILL overtask a thousand men,
With all their strength and skill,
To build my Lord ere New Year's eve
His castle on the hill."

"Then take two thousand," said my Lord, "And labor with a will."

They wrought, these glad two thousand men, But long ere winter gloom,

My Lord had found a smaller house,

And dwelt in one dark room;

And one man built it in one day,

While bells rang ding, dong, boom!

Shut up the door! shut up the door!
Shut up the door till Doom!

CARELESS.

SPRING gave me a friend, and a true, true love;—The summer went caroling by,

And the autumn brown'd, and the winter frown'd,
And I sat me down to sigh:

My friend was false for the sake of gold,
Ere the farmer stack'd his rye;

And my true love changed with the fickle west wind,

Ere winter dull'd the sky;

But the bees are humming-a new spring's coming,

And none the worse am I.

THE LAST QUARREL.

THE last time that we quarrell'd, love, It was an April day,

And through the gushing of the rain, That beat against the window-pane, We saw the sunbeams play.

The linnet never ceased its song,

Merry it seem'd, and free ;— "Your eyes have long since made it up, And why not lips?" quoth he

You thought;-I thought;-and so 'twas done Under the greenwood tree.

The next time that we quarrel, love,

Far distant be the day,

Of chiding look or angry word.
We'll not forget the little bird

That sang upon the spray.

Amid your tears, as bright as rain

When Heaven's fair bow extends,
Your eyes shall mark where love begii ¡,
And cold estrangement ends;—
You'll think;-I'll think;-and as of ld,
You'll kiss me, and be friends.

"LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE W&T.

OVER the mountains
If love cannot leap,
Down through the valleys
Unheeded he'll creep.
Whatever his purpose,
He'll do it or die;

And hardships and dangers
Confess it and fly.

Poor as a beggar,

Yet rich as a king; Stormy as winter,

And radiant as spring
He's constant, he's changeiul,
He's night, and he's day;
A guide who misleads us,
Yet shows us the way.

Drown him in billows
Deep, deep in the main,
Light as the sea-bird

He'll float up again.
You think he has perish'd
In sleet and in showers,
He rises in sunlight,

And treads over flowers. Lock him in darkness, In grief, and in thralls, Laughing to scorn you. He'll glide through the walls Go chain up a sunbeam,

Or cage the wild wave;Then bind him with fetters, And make him a slave! Call him not haughty

He dwells with the poor;
Call him not feeble-

He's strong to endure;
And call him not foolish-
He governs the wise;
Nor little-he's greater
Than earth and the skies

LITTLE BELL.

"He prayeth well, who loveth well,

"

unfold,

Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold.” "Little Bell," said she."

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks— "Bonny bird!" quoth she,

Sing me your best song, before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the Blackbird piped-you never heard
Half so gay a song from any bird ;

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,

Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while that bonny bird did pour
His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er,
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below,
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the brown, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade-
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel-shade,
And, from out the tree,

Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, While bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear, "Little Bell!" piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern:
Squirrel, Squirrel! to your task return
Bring me nuts!" quoth she.
Up, away! the frisky Squirrel hies,
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes,
And adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap drop, one by one-
Hark! how Blackbird pipes, to see the fun!
"Happy Bell!" pipes he.

Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare,
Down came bonny Black bird, I declare ;
Little Bell gave each his honest share--
Ah! the merry three!

And the while those frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough aga☎ 'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below,
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow,

From her brown, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot, at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray.
Very calm and clear

Rose the praying voice, to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel-shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.

"What good child is this?" the angel said.
"That, with happy heart, beside her bed,
Prays so lovingly?

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the Blackbird in the orchard creft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he. "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care Child, thy bed shall be

Folded safe from harm; love, deep and kind, Shall watch round and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee."

THE MOORLAND CHILD.

UPON the bleak and barren moor

I met a wandering child;

Her cheeks were pale, her hair hung laut.
Her sunken eyes gleamed wild.
"And have you no kind mother, child?
I asked, with softened tone.

My mother went away lang syne,
And left me here alone.
"'Twas in the winter weather, black,

The night lay on the moor;
The angry winds went howling by
Our creaking cottage door.

"My mother lay upon her bed,

She shook and shivered sore;
She clasped me in her trembling arms,
She kissed me o'er and o'er.
"I knelt beside her on the ground.
I wailed in bitter sorrow;
The wind without upon the moor
My wailing seemed to borrow.

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