But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook

in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on

men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:

In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that

young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,

Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

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I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and arméd hands

Encountered in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her
brave,
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and stagger-
ing wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry, -
O, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare ! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here!

Another hand the sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

FROM "THE RIVULET."

AND I shall sleep; and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age, and die.
But thou, unchanged from year to year,
Gayly shalt play and glitter here:
Amid young flowers and tender grass
Thy endless infancy shalt pass;
And, singing down thy narrow glen,
Shalt mock the fading race of men.

The patter of his little feet,
Sweet frowns and stammered phrases
sweet;

And graver looks, serene and high,
A light of heaven in that young eye:
All these shall haunt us till the heart
Shall ache and ache, - and tears will start.

The bow, the band, shall fall to dust;
The shining arrows waste with rust;
And all of Love that earth can claim
Be but a memory and a name.

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell,
A prisoner in this narrow cell;
But he, whom now we hide from men
In the dark ground, shall live again, —
Shall break these clods, a form of light,
With nobler mien and purer sight,
And in the eternal glory stand
Highest and nearest God's right hand.

THE BURIAL OF LOVE.

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,
Sat where a river rolled away,
With calm, sad brows, and raven hair;
And one was pale, and both were fair.

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers

unblown;

Bring forest blooms of name unknown;
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,
To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep;
And fold his hands in sign of rest,
His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And bluebirds, in the misty spring,
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.
Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around
His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss
His ready smile, his ready kiss,

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved;

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep;
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse;
The monarch's crown, to light the
brows?

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved;
A little dust, to overweep;
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake.
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say But have no tune to charm away

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap.
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard, —
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That see through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who "giveth His beloved sleep!"

And, friends, dear friends, when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall,
He giveth His beloved sleep."

BERTHA IN THE LANE.

PUT the broidery-frame away,
For my sewing is all done!
The last thread is used to-day,
And I need not join it on.

Though the clock stands at the noon,
I am weary! I have sewn,
Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown.

Sister, help me to the bed,

And stand near me, dearest-sweet! Do not shrink nor be afraid, Blushing with a sudden heat! No one standeth in the street!

By God's love I go to meet, Love I thee with love complete.

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Lean thy face down! drop it in These two hands, that may hold 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, Stroking back the curls of gold. 'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth, Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth!

Thou art younger by seven years -
Ah! so bashful at my gaze.
That the lashes, hung with tears,
Grow too heavy to upraise!
I would wound thee by no touch
Which thy shyness feels as such-
Dost thou mind me, dear, so much?

Have I not been nigh a mother

To thy sweetness, -tell me, dear, Have we not loved one another Tenderly, from year to year? Since our dying mother mild Said, with accents undefiled, "Child, be mother to this child!"

Mother, mother, up in heaven,

Stand up on the jasper sea, And be witness I have given

All the gifts required of me;-
Hope that blessed me, bliss that
crowned,

Love that left me with a wound,
Life itself, that turned around!

Mother, mother, thou art kind,

Thou art standing in the room, In a molten glory shrined, That rays off into the gloom! But thy smile is bright and bleak, Like cold waves, I cannot speak; I sob in it, and grow weak.

Ghostly mother, keep aloof
One hour longer from my soul,
For I still am thinking of

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!
On my finger is a ring
Which I still see glittering,
When the night hides everything.

Little sister, thou art pale!

Ah, I have a wandering brain,-
But I lose that fever-bale,

And my thoughts grow calm again.
Lean down closer, closer still!

Through the winding hedge-rows green,
How we wandered, I and you,
With the bowery tops shut in,

And the gates that showed the view;
How we talked there! thrushes soft
Sang our pauses out, or oft
Bleatings took them from the croft.

Till the pleasure, grown too strong,
Left me muter evermore;
And, the winding road being long,
I walked out of sight, before;
And so, wrapt in musings fond,
Issued (past the wayside pond)
On the meadow-lands beyond.

I sat down beneath the beech

Which leans over to the lane,
And the far sound of your speech
Did not promise any pain;
And I blessed you full and free,
With a smile stooped tenderly
O'er the May-flowers on my knee.
But the sound grew into word

As the speakers drew more near-
Sweet, forgive me that I heard

What you wished me not to hear.
Do not weep so, do not shake -
O, I heard thee, Bertha, make
Good, true answers for my sake.

Yes, and he too! let him stand
In thy thoughts, untouched by blame.
Could he help it, if my hand

He had claimed with hasty claim!
That was wrong perhaps, but then
Such things be, — and will, again!
Women cannot judge for men.

Had he seen thee, when he swore

He would love but me alone? Thou wert absent, sent before To our kin in Sidmouth town. When he saw thee, who art best Past compare, and loveliest, He but judged thee as the rest. Could we blame him with grave words, Thou and I, dear, if we might? Thy brown eyes have looks like birds Flying straightway to the light; Mine are older. Hush!-look outUp the street! Is none without? How the poplar swings about!

And that hour- beneath the beech-
When I listened in a dream,
And he said, in his deep speech,

That he owed me all esteem,
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain.

I fell flooded with a dark,

In the silence of a swoon :
When I rose, still, cold, and stark,
There was night, I saw the moon;
And the stars, each in its place,
And the May-blooms on the grass,
Seemed to wonder what I was.
And I walked as if apart

From myself when I could stand,
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand
Somewhat coldly, with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a "Poor thing" negligence.
And I answered coldly too,

When you met me at the door;
And I only heard the dew

Dripping from me to the floor; And the flowers I bade you see Were too withered for the bee, As my life, henceforth, for me. Do not weep so

dear-heart-warm!

It was best as it befell! If I say he did me harm,

I speak wild, I am not well.
All his words were kind and good, -
He esteemed me! Only blood
Runs so faint in womanhood.

Then I always was too grave,

Liked the saddest ballads sung,

Yet who plucks me?- no one mourns;
I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns,
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.

Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea or nay?
Some one might be waiting for

Some last word that I might say.
Nay? So best!-So angels would
Stand off clear from deathly road,
Not to cross the sight of God.

Colder grow my hands and feet:

When I wear the shroud I made,
Let the folds lie straight and neat,
And the rosemary be spread,
That if any friend should come,
(To see thee, sweet!) all the room
May be lifted out of gloom.

And, dear Bertha, let me keep

On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave, where it will light
All the dark up, day and night.

On that grave drop not a tear!
Else, though fathom-deep the place,
Through the woollen shroud I wear
I shall feel it on my face.

Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in tne sun, -
Or forget me, smiling on!

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Art thou near me? nearer? so!
Kiss me close upon the eyes,
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly as it used to rise,
When I watched the morning gray
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.

So

no more vain words be said! The hosannas nearer rollMother, smile now on thy dead, I am death-strong in my soul! Mystic Dove alit on cross, Guide the poor bird of the snows Through the snow-wind above loss!

Jesus, Victim, comprehending
Love's divine self-abnegation,
Cleanse my love in its self-spending,
And absorb the poor libation!
Wind my thread of life up higher,
Up through angels' hands of fire!—
I aspire while I expire!

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.

WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a
goat,

And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river?

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep, cool bed of the river,
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river,
And hacked and hewed as a great god can
With his hard, bleak steel at the patient
reed,

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!)