I sit alone; in foam and spray
Wave after wave

Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray,

Shoulder the broken tide away,

locust spray.

mossy cleft and cave.

WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF SILAS WRIGHT OF NEW YORK.

As they who, tossing midst the storm at night,

While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone,

So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light

Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon,

While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight,

And, day by day, within thy spirit grew A holier hope than young Ambition knew, As through thy rural quiet, not in vain, Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain,

Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon !

Portents at which the bravest stand aghast,

The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast,

Alarm the land; yet thou, so wise and strong,

Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long,

Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead. Who now shall rally Freedom's scattering host?

Who wear the mantle of the leader lost? Who stay the march of slavery? He whose voice

Hath called thee from thy task-field

shall not lack

Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back

The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches Him:

Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trim,

And wave them high across the abysmal black,

Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice.

10th mo.,

1847.

LINES,

The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings;

129

Till starting from his sandy bed,
The wayworn wanderer looks to see
The halo of an angel's head

Shine through the tamarisk-tree.

So through the shadows of my way Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, So at the weary close of day

Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.

That pilgrim pressing to his goal
May pause not for the vision's sake,
Yet all fair things within his soul
The thought of it shall wake:

The graceful palm-tree by the well,
Seen on the far horizon's rim;
The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle,
Bent timidly on him ;

Each pictured saint, whose golden hair Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom;

Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, And loving Mary's tomb ;

And thus each tint or shade which falls, From sunset cloud or waving tree, Along my pilgrim path, recalls

The pleasant thought of thee.

Of one in sun and shade the same,
In weal and woe my steady friend,
Whatever by that holy name
The angels comprehend.

ED TO A FRIEND.

'Tis said that in the Holy Land

The angels of the place have blessed The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, Like Jacob's stone of rest.

That down the hush of Syrian skies Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings

Like feathers from his wings,

Chance shootings from a frail life-tree,

To nurturing care but little known, Their good was partly learned of thee, Their folly is my own.

That tree still clasps the kindly mould,

Its leaves still drink the twilight dew,

I SHALL not soon forget that sight : The glow of autumn's westering day, A hazy warmth, a dreamy light,

On Raphael's picture lay.

It was a simple print I saw,

The fair face of a musing boy;
Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe
Seemed blending with my joy.

A simple print:-the graceful flow
Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair,
And fresh young lip and cheek, and
brow

Unmarked and clear, were there.

Yet through its sweet and calm repose
I saw the inward spirit shine;
It was as if before me rose

The white veil of a shrine.

As if, as Gothland's sage has told,

The hidden life, the man within, Dissevered from its frame and mould, By mortal eye were seen.

Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore,
And heard thy low, soft voice alone
Midst lapse of waters, and the tone
Of pine-leaves by the west-wind blown,
There's not a charm of soul or brow,

Of all we knew and loved in thee,
But lives in holier beauty now,
Baptized in immortality!
Not mine the sad and freezing dream
Of souls that, with their earthly mould,
Cast off the loves and joys of old,
Unbodied, - like a pale moonbeam,
As pure, as passionless, and cold ;
Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,

Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one, In blank annihilation blest ; Dust-atoms of the infinite, Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain Their old unconsciousness again. No! I have FRIENDS in Spirit Land, Not shadows in a shadowy band,

Not others, but themselves are they. And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came ; Their change, the holy morn-light breaking

Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking,A change from twilight into day.

They've laid thee midst the household graves,

Where father, brother, sister lie;
Below thee sweep the dark blue waves,
Above thee bends the summer sky.
Thy own loved church in sadness read
Her solemn ritual o'er thy head,
And blessed and hallowed with her
prayer

The turf laid lightly o'er thee there.
That church, whose rites and liturgy,
Sublime and old, were truth to thee,
Undoubted to thy bosom taken,
As symbols of a faith unshaken.
Even I, of simpler views, could feel
The beauty of thy trust and zeal;
And, owning not thy creed, could see
How deep a truth it seemed to thee,
And how thy fervent heart had thrown
O er all, a coloring of its own,
And kindled up, intense and warm,
A life in every rite and form,
As, when on Chebar's banks of old,
The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled,
A spirit filled the vast machine,
A life within the wheels" was seen.

wrong,

The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty

Which blended in thy song.

All lovely things, by thee beloved,

Shall whisper to our hearts of thee; These green hills, where thy childhood roved,

Yon river winding to the sea, The sunset light of autumn eves Reflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves

Of rainbow-tinted woods, These, in our view, shall henceforth take A tenderer meaning for thy sake; And all thou lovedst of earth and sky, Seem sacred to thy memory.

CHANNING.44

Nor vainly did old poets tell,
Nor vainly did old genius paint
God's great and crowning miracle,
The hero and the saint!

For even in a faithless day

Can we our sainted ones discern; And feel, while with them on the way, Our hearts within us burn.

And thus the common tongue and pen Which, world-wide, echo CHANNING'S fame,

As one of Heaven's anointed men,

Have sanctified his name.

In vain shall Rome her portals bar,

And shut from him her saintly prize, Whom, in the world's great calendar, All men shall canonize.