worn peasants

Thy call abide ;

And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy

presence,

Shall glean beside !

GONE.

ANOTHER hand is beckoning us,
Another call is given;
And glows once more with Angel-steps
The path which reaches Heaven.

Our young and gentle friend, whose smile

Made brighter summer hours, Amid the frosts of autumn time

Has left us with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom

Forewarned us of decay; No shadow from the Silent Land

Fell round our sister's way.

The light of her young life went down,
As sinks behind the hill
The glory of a setting star,
Clear, suddenly, and still.

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed
Eternal as the sky;

And like the brook's low song, her voice,

A sound which could not die.

And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,
To give to Heaven a Shining One,
Who walked an Angel here.

The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew;

And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed

Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look ;
We read her face, as one who reads
A true and holy book:

The measure of a blessed hymn,

To which our hearts could move ;The breathing of an inward psalm; A canticle of love.

139

And by the hearth-fire's light; We pause beside her door to hear Once more her sweet "Good-night!"

There seems a shadow on the day,
Her smile no longer cheers;
A dimness on the stars of night,
Like eyes that look through tears.

Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home his child.

Fold her, O Father! in thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
A messenger of love between

Our human hearts and thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,
And her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in Goodness strong.

And grant that she who, trembling, here
Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home
The well-beloved of ours.

THE LAKE-SIDE.

THE shadows round the inland sea
Are deepening into night;
Slow up the slopes of Ossipee

They chase the lessening light.
Tired of the long day's blinding heat,
I rest my languid eye,

Lake of the Hills! where, cool and sweet,

Thy sunset waters lie!

Along the sky, in wavy lines,

O'er isle and reach and bay, Green-belted with eternal pines, The mountains stretch away. Below, the maple masses sleep

Where shore with water blends, While midway on the tranquil deep The evening light descends.

So seemed it when yon hill's red crown, Of old, the Indian trod,

And, through the sunset air, looked down Upon the Smile of God.47

To him of light and shade the laws
No forest sceptic taught;
Their living and eternal Cause
His truer instinct sought.

He saw these mountains in the light
Which now across them shines;
This lake, in summer sunset bright,
Walled round with sombering pines.
God near him seemed; from earth and
skies

His loving voice he heard,
As, face to face, in Paradise,
Man stood before the Lord.

Thanks, O our Father! that, like him,
Thy tender love I see,

In radiant hill and woodland dim,
And tinted sunset sea.
For not in mockery dost thou fill
Our earth with light and grace;
Thou hid'st no dark and cruel will
Behind thy smiling face!

THE HILL-TOP.

THE burly driver at my side,

We slowly climbed the hill,
Whose summit, in the hot noontide,
Seemed rising, rising still.
At last, our short noon-shadows hid
The top-stone, bare and brown,
From whence, like Gizeh's pyramid,
The rough mass slanted down.

I felt the cool breath of the North;
Between me and the sun,
O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth,
I saw the cloud-shades run.
Before me, stretched for glistening miles,
Lay mountain-girdled Squam;
Like green-winged birds, the leafy isles
Upon its bosom swam.

And, glimmering through the sun-haze

With many a nameless slide-scarred

crest

And pine-dark gorge between. Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud, The great Notch mountains shone, Watched over by the solemn-browed And awful face of stone!

"A good look-off!" the driver spake : "About this time, last year,

I drove a party to the Lake,

And stopped, at evening, here.
'T was duskish down below; but all
These hills stood in the sun,
Till, dipped behind yon purple wall,
He left them, one by one.

"A lady, who, from Thornton hill,
Had held her place outside,

And, as a pleasant woman will,

Had cheered the long, dull ride,
Besought me, with so sweet a smile,
That though I hate delay
I could not choose but rest awhile,
(These women have such ways!)

"On yonder mossy ledge she sat,
Her sketch upon her knees,
A stray brown lock beneath her hat
Unrolling in the breeze;
Her sweet face, in the sunset light
Upraised and glorified,

I never saw a prettier sight
In all my mountain ride.

"As good as fair; it seemed her joy
To comfort and to give ;
My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy,
Will bless her while they live!
The tremor in the driver's tone

His manhood did not shame : "I dare say, sir, you may have knownHe named a well-known name.

Then sank the pyramidal mounds,
The blue lake fled away;
For mountain-scope a parlor's bounds,
A lighted hearth for day!
From lonely years
and weary
The shadows fell apart;

miles

Kind voices cheered, sweet human smiles

Shone warm into my heart.

We journeyed on; but earth and sky
Had power to charm no more;
Still dreamed my inward-turning eye
The dream of memory o'er.

ALL day the darkness and the cold
Upon my heart have lain,
Like shadows on the winter sky,
Like frost upon the pane;

But now my torpid fancy wakes,
And, on thy Eagle's plume,
Rides forth, like Sindbad on his bird,
Or witch upon her broom!

Below me roar the rocking pines,

Before me spreads the lake
Whose long and solemn-sounding waves
Against the sunset break.

I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh
The grain he has not sown;
I see, with flashing scythe of fire,
The prairie harvest mown!

I hear the far-off voyager's horn;
I see the Yankee's trail,
His foot on every mountain-pass,
On every stream his sail.

By forest, lake, and waterfall,
I see his pedler show;
The mighty mingling with the mean,
The lofty with the low.

He's whittling by St. Mary's Falls,
Upon his loaded wain ;
He's measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks,
With eager eyes of gain.

I hear the mattock in the mine,
The axe-stroke in the dell,
The clamor from the Indian lodge,
The Jesuit chapel bell!

I see the swarthy trappers come
From Mississippi's springs;
And war-chiefs with their painted brows,
And crests of eagle wings.

Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe,
The steamer smokes and raves;
And city lots are staked for sale

Above old Indian graves.

I hear the tread of pioneers

Of nations yet to be;

141

The first low wash of waves, where soon
Shall roll a human sea.

The rudiments of empire here
Are plastic yet and warm;
The chaos of a mighty world

Is rounding into form!

Each rude and jostling fragment soon

Its fitting place shall find, The raw material of a State,

Its muscle and its mind!

And, westering still, the star which leads
The New World in its train

Has tipped with fire the icy spears
Of many a mountain chain.

The snowy cones of Oregon

Are kindling on its way;
And California's golden sands
Gleam brighter in its ray!

Then blessings on thy eagle quill,
As, wandering far and wide,
I thank thee for this twilight dream
And Fancy's airy ride!

Yet, welcomer than regal plumes,
Which Western trappers find,

Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance

sown,

Like feathers on the wind.

Thy symbol be the mountain-bird,
Whose glistening quill I hold;
Thy home the ample air of hope,
And memory's sunset gold!

In thee, let joy with duty join,

And strength unite with love,
The cagle's pinions folding round
The warm heart of the dove!

So, when in darkness sleeps the valę
Where still the blind bird clings,
The sunshine of the upper sky
Shall glitter on thy wings!

MEMORIES.

A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl,

With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl Of unconfined and flowing hair;

A seeming child in everything,
Save thoughtful brow and ripening
charms,

As Nature wears the smile of Spring
When sinking into Summer's arms.
A mind rejoicing in the light
Which melted through its graceful
bower,

Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright,
And stainless in its holy white,

Unfolding like a morning flower:
A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,
With every breath of feeling woke,
And, even when the tongue was mute,
From eye and lip in music spoke.

How thrills once more the lengthening

chain

Of memory, at the thought of thee !
Old hopes which long in dust have lain
Old dreams, come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;
I feel its glow upon my cheek,

Its fulness of the heart is mine,
As when I leaned to hear thee speak,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

I hear again thy low replies,

I feel thy arm within my own,
And timidly again uprise
The fringéd lids of hazel eyes,

With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah memories of sweet summer eves,
Of moonlit waye and willowy way,
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than
they !

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled

My picture of thy youth to see, When, half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled,

And folly's self seemed wise in thee; I too can smile, when o'er that hour The lights of memory back ward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. Years have passed on, and left their trace, Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace

Of woman's pensive beauty brought. More wide, perchance, for blame than praise,

The school-boy's humble name has flown;

And wider yet in thought and deed

Diverge our pathways, one in youth; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm.

Yet hath thy spirit left on me

An impress Time has worn not out,
And something of myself in thee,
A shadow from the past, I see,

Lingering, even yet, thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn

That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers.

Thus, while at times before our eyes

The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies

The warm light of our morning skies,
The Indian Summer of the heart!
In secret sympathies of mind,

In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find

Our early dreams not wholly vain!

THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK.48

THE day is closing dark and cold,

With roaring blast and sleety showers; And through the dusk the lilacs wear The bloom of snow, instead of flowers.

I turn me from the gloom without,
To ponder o'er a tale of old,
A legend of the age of Faith,

By dreaming monk or abbess told. On Tintoretto's canvas lives

That fancy of a loving heart, In graceful lines and shapes of power, And hues immortal as his art.

In Provence (so the story runs)

There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, A peasant-boy of tender years

The chance of trade or conquest gave.