"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour wall

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,

Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues,

Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming;

Workings are they of the self-same powers,

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us spring is born;

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,

Stand like Ruth amid the golden

corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,

Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in

stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of
Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-
like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive rea-

sons,

How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,

Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But, when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmèd air.

Down the broad valley, fast and far,
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of

man,

That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and

wan

Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray,-Pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;-
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with
heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,
A king,-a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! O, the old man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,

Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,-
To the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,

"Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!"

WOODS IN WINTER.

WHEN Winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert
woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay,

And winds were soft, and woods were