THE MAIDEN'S SORROW. SEVEN long years has the desert rain Dropped on the clods that hide thy face; Seven long years of sorrow and pain I have thought of thy burial-place. Thought of thy fate in the distant west, Dying with none that loved thee near; They who flung the earth on thy breast Turned from the spot without a tear. There, I think, on that lonely grave, There, in the summer breezes, wave There the turtles alight, and there Feeds with her fawn the timid doe; There, when the winter woods are bare, Walks the wolf on the crackling snow. Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away; All my task upon earth is done; My poor father, old and gray, Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone. In the dreams of my lonely bed, This deep wound that bleeds and aches, This long pain, a sleepless painWhen the Father my spirit takes, I shall feel it no more again. THE RETURN OF YOUTH. My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,— Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak, And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days, Slopes downward to the place of common sleep; Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet Than when at first he took thee by the hand, Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Of streams that water banks for ever fair, More musical in that celestial air? A HYMN OF THE SEA. THE sea is mighty, but a mightier sways His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped In acclamation. I behold the ships Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, |