MISCELLANEOUS

POEMS.

A BUNCH OF SNOWDROPS.

ENDER snowdrops, wee and white,
Go to her whose beauty lies
On my being, like the light

Of the stars on brows of skies.

When the moon hath not a streak,
And the night all gloom would be,
But for those still gems that break
Through the mirk on land and sea.

Go to her I love, and say
"Fearful love is ever true;
Say I cherish her to-day

With a thought as pure as you."

And, as ye are hands of hope,
Stretching out to broken things
Toiling up the winter slope,

And the year's first blossoming;

So is she the Iris-light

Stretching to me through the years; First for her, my soul in might

Woke and gave me love and tears.

And as ye, frail things, are soon
Riven of your modest bloom;
Morn of spring, and summer's noon
Lustre o'er your living tomb.

So, if she should spurn my love,

Scorch my hope with cruel breath, will move,

On and on the years

Blooming o'er the living death.

YOUNG AMBITION.

'D scorn to swell the toady rout,
Or bow before the gilded elf;

I laugh at Fate, and sing and shout,

"The man's the man he makes himself."

I strike my breast—its ring is sound;

I feel my wrists-they're shackle-free;

I look above, before, around,

And scoff the prate of Destiny. I think my life-my nucleus lay, And toil around it patiently; The circle widens day by day;

The man's the man he wills to be!

No golden key, no magic door,

No royal road for any man;
All naked born, the rich, the poor,
The autocrat, the plebeian.

I have no patience for the sect

Who dream of crowns, and covet thrones, Yet sit and murmur, and expect

The world to lay them stepping-stones.
I love the man who bears his thews,
And lifts his form erect and free,
Trusts his own strength, his path pursues,
And makes him what he wills to be.

Am I not strong and hardy-faced?
Hath he not given a harp to me,
A soul to love and feel; and placed
Within me my eternity?

Have I not feet to climb the stair?

A mind to think, a brain to plan? Have I not hands to do and dare?

Shall I not stand distinct a man?
O yes! I'll live; not drift, not dream;
Fate, circumstance, my steeds shall be:
I'll mould each moment to my schemes,
Becoming that I fancy me.

I'll grasp the skirts of light, and link
A mortal to a heavenly goal;
Anoint my lips with truth, and drink
The universe into my soul;

I'll sow a stream of radiance there,

A moon-track on the wrestling seas;

My songs shall bow the hearts of men,

As tempest winds bow forest trees;
I'll lift my voice and send it far
Along thy shores, Eternity!

I'll bare my forehead--shine a star—
The man's the man he wills to be.

SONG.-OCTOBER.

HEN the herds were picking the dead ash leaves
Under the trees,

When winds were bringing a trouble of death

On many seas,

She died, alas !

She in whose life I had lived and moved

So long, so long!

Who had made all my days like the ravishing change

Of a passionate song;

She, who was ever a delicate bud,

Wee, weak, and frail ;

She died, alas!

For whom I so anxiously watched and met

Chill, damp, and gale;

She died, alas !

She, who was blythe as a bird one day,

The next without strength;

Whom I dreamed, could she tide o'er a few more years,

Might grow strong at length;

She died, alas !

She died, and the light of my life and hope
Went out, went out !

And my heart sobs now, as the shuddering leaves
Drift dead about;

She died, alas !

NEW YEAR'S RESOLVES.

WILL be useful and happy yet,

Though my path hath been shaded long;

Though, frail and dependent, misfortune hath

damped

The dawn of my life and song.

I will be patient, and strong, and brave,
And true to my purpose set;

My being shall gloriously rise over self—
I will be earnest yet!

The rare woman-form that is all too dear,
And the love that may never be mine,
And the fair home-ties I have dreamed of so,
My soul shall be brave to resign.

The calmness will come in God's good time,
And the yearnings will cease to fret:

I'll sow all my tenderness wide in the world-
I will be conqueror yet!