SIGNS OF THE HEART

Dwells there a shadow on thy brow—A look that years impart?Does there a thought of vanished hoursCome ever o'er thy heart?Or give those earnest eyes yet backAn image of the soul,Mirrored in truth, in light and joy,Above the world's control?So may their gaze be ever fraughtWith utterance deep and strong,Yielding a holy strength to right,A stern rebuke to wrong!Thy soul, upborne on wisdom's wings,In brighter morn will findLife hath a higher recompenseThan just to please mankind.Supreme and omnipresent God,Guide him in wisdom's way!Give peaceful triumph to the truth,Bid error melt away!Lynn, Mass.,November 8, 1866.

Dwells there a shadow on thy brow—A look that years impart?Does there a thought of vanished hoursCome ever o'er thy heart?

Or give those earnest eyes yet backAn image of the soul,Mirrored in truth, in light and joy,Above the world's control?

So may their gaze be ever fraughtWith utterance deep and strong,Yielding a holy strength to right,A stern rebuke to wrong!

Thy soul, upborne on wisdom's wings,In brighter morn will findLife hath a higher recompenseThan just to please mankind.

Supreme and omnipresent God,Guide him in wisdom's way!Give peaceful triumph to the truth,Bid error melt away!

Lynn, Mass.,November 8, 1866.

Come to me, joys of heaven!Breathe through the summer airA balm—the long-lost leavenDissolving death, despair!O little heart,To me thou artA sign that never can depart.Come to me, peace on earth!From out life's billowy sea,—A wave of welcome birth,—The Life that lives in Thee!O Love divine,This heart of ThineIs all I need to comfort mine.Come when the shadows fall,And night grows deeply dark;The barren brood, O callWith song of morning lark;And from above,Dear heart of Love,Send us thy white-winged dove.Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., 1899.

Come to me, joys of heaven!Breathe through the summer airA balm—the long-lost leavenDissolving death, despair!O little heart,To me thou artA sign that never can depart.

Come to me, peace on earth!From out life's billowy sea,—A wave of welcome birth,—The Life that lives in Thee!O Love divine,This heart of ThineIs all I need to comfort mine.

Come when the shadows fall,And night grows deeply dark;The barren brood, O callWith song of morning lark;And from above,Dear heart of Love,Send us thy white-winged dove.

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., 1899.

Mirrors of mornWhence the dewdrop is born,Soft tints of the rainbow and skies—Sisters of song,What a shadowy throngAround you in memory rise!Far do ye flee,From your green bowers free,Fair floral apostles of love,Sweetly to shedFragrance fresh round the dead,And breath of the living above.Flowers for the brave—Be he monarch or slave,Whose heart bore its grief and is still!Flowers for the kind—Aye, the Christians who windWreaths for the triumphs o'er ill!Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,May 21, 1904.

Mirrors of mornWhence the dewdrop is born,Soft tints of the rainbow and skies—Sisters of song,What a shadowy throngAround you in memory rise!

Far do ye flee,From your green bowers free,Fair floral apostles of love,Sweetly to shedFragrance fresh round the dead,And breath of the living above.

Flowers for the brave—Be he monarch or slave,Whose heart bore its grief and is still!Flowers for the kind—Aye, the Christians who windWreaths for the triumphs o'er ill!

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,May 21, 1904.

Pass on, returnless year!The track behind thee is with glory crowned;The turf where thou hast trod is holy ground.Pass proudly to thy bier!Chill was thy midnight day,While Justice grasped the sword to hold her throne,And on her altar our loved Lincoln's ownGreat willing heart did lay.Thy purpose hath been won!Thou point'st thy phantom finger, grim and cold,To the dark record of our guilt unrolled,And smiling, say'st, "'Tis done!"This record I will bearTo the dim chambers of eternity—The chain and charter I have lived to seePurged by the cannon's prayer;"Convulsion, carnage, war;The pomp and tinsel of unrighteous power;Bloated oppression in its awful hour,—I, dying, dare abhor!"One word, receding year,Ere thou grow tremulous with shadowy night!Say, will the young year dawn with wisdom's lightTo brighten o'er thy bier?Or we the past forget,And heal her wounds too tenderly to last?Or let today grow difficult and vastWith traitors unvoiced yet?Though thou must leave the tear,—Hearts bleeding ere they break in silence yet,Wrong jubilant and right with bright eye wet,—Thou fast expiring year,Thy work is done, and well:Thou hast borne burdens, and may take thy rest,Pillow thy head on time's untired breast.Illustrious year, farewell!Lynn, Mass.,January 1, 1866.

Pass on, returnless year!The track behind thee is with glory crowned;The turf where thou hast trod is holy ground.Pass proudly to thy bier!

Chill was thy midnight day,While Justice grasped the sword to hold her throne,And on her altar our loved Lincoln's ownGreat willing heart did lay.

Thy purpose hath been won!Thou point'st thy phantom finger, grim and cold,To the dark record of our guilt unrolled,And smiling, say'st, "'Tis done!

"This record I will bearTo the dim chambers of eternity—The chain and charter I have lived to seePurged by the cannon's prayer;

"Convulsion, carnage, war;The pomp and tinsel of unrighteous power;Bloated oppression in its awful hour,—I, dying, dare abhor!"

One word, receding year,Ere thou grow tremulous with shadowy night!Say, will the young year dawn with wisdom's lightTo brighten o'er thy bier?

Or we the past forget,And heal her wounds too tenderly to last?Or let today grow difficult and vastWith traitors unvoiced yet?

Though thou must leave the tear,—Hearts bleeding ere they break in silence yet,Wrong jubilant and right with bright eye wet,—Thou fast expiring year,

Thy work is done, and well:Thou hast borne burdens, and may take thy rest,Pillow thy head on time's untired breast.Illustrious year, farewell!

Lynn, Mass.,January 1, 1866.

Father of every age,Of every rolling sphere,Help us to write a deathless pageOf truth, this dawning year!Help us to humbly bowTo Thy all-wise behest—Whate'er the gift of joy or woe,Knowing Thou knowest best.Aid our poor soul to singAbove the tempest's glee;Give us the eagle's fearless wing,The dove's to soar to Thee!All-merciful and good,Hover the homeless heart!Give us this day our daily foodIn knowing what Thou art!Swampscott, Mass.,January 1, 1868.

Father of every age,Of every rolling sphere,Help us to write a deathless pageOf truth, this dawning year!

Help us to humbly bowTo Thy all-wise behest—Whate'er the gift of joy or woe,Knowing Thou knowest best.

Aid our poor soul to singAbove the tempest's glee;Give us the eagle's fearless wing,The dove's to soar to Thee!

All-merciful and good,Hover the homeless heart!Give us this day our daily foodIn knowing what Thou art!

Swampscott, Mass.,January 1, 1868.

Blest Christmas morn, though murky cloudsPursue thy way,Thy light was born where storm enshroudsNor dawn nor day!Dear Christ, forever here and near,No cradle song,No natal hour and mother's tear,To thee belong.Thou God-idea, Life-encrowned,The Bethlehem babe—Beloved, replete, by flesh embound—Was but thy shade!Thou gentle beam of living Love,And deathless Life!Truth infinite,—so far aboveAll mortal strife,Or cruel creed, or earth-born taint:Fill us todayWith all thou art—be thou our saint,Our stay, alway.December, 1898.

Blest Christmas morn, though murky cloudsPursue thy way,Thy light was born where storm enshroudsNor dawn nor day!

Dear Christ, forever here and near,No cradle song,No natal hour and mother's tear,To thee belong.

Thou God-idea, Life-encrowned,The Bethlehem babe—Beloved, replete, by flesh embound—Was but thy shade!

Thou gentle beam of living Love,And deathless Life!Truth infinite,—so far aboveAll mortal strife,

Or cruel creed, or earth-born taint:Fill us todayWith all thou art—be thou our saint,Our stay, alway.

December, 1898.

Gently thou beckonest from the giant hillsThe new-born beauty in the emerald sky,And wakening murmurs from the drowsy rills—O gladsome dayspring! 'reft of mortal sighTo glorify all time—eternity—With thy still fathomless Christ-majesty.E'en as Thou gildest gladdened joy, dear God,Give risen power to prayer; fan Thou the flameOf right with might; and midst the rod,And stern, dark shadows cast on Thy blest name,Lift Thou a patient love above earth's ire,Piercing the clouds with its triumphal spire.While sacred song and loudest breath of praiseEcho amid the hymning spheres of light,—With heaven's lyres and angels' loving lays,—Send to the loyal struggler for the right,Joy—not of time, nor yet by nature sown,But the celestial seed dropped from Love's throne.Prolong the strain "Christ risen!" Sad sense, annoyNo more the peace of Soul's sweet solitude!Deep loneness, tear-filled tones of distant joy,Depart! Glad Easter glows with gratitude—Love's verdure veils the leaflet's wondrous birth—Rich rays, rare footprints on the dust of earth.Not life, the vassal of the changeful hour,Nor burdened bliss, but Truth and Love attestThe solemn splendor of immortal power,—The ever Christ, and glorified behest,Poured on the sense which deems no suffering vainThat wipes away the sting of death—sin, pain.Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,April 18, 1900.

E'en as Thou gildest gladdened joy, dear God,Give risen power to prayer; fan Thou the flameOf right with might; and midst the rod,And stern, dark shadows cast on Thy blest name,Lift Thou a patient love above earth's ire,Piercing the clouds with its triumphal spire.

While sacred song and loudest breath of praiseEcho amid the hymning spheres of light,—With heaven's lyres and angels' loving lays,—Send to the loyal struggler for the right,Joy—not of time, nor yet by nature sown,But the celestial seed dropped from Love's throne.

Prolong the strain "Christ risen!" Sad sense, annoyNo more the peace of Soul's sweet solitude!Deep loneness, tear-filled tones of distant joy,Depart! Glad Easter glows with gratitude—Love's verdure veils the leaflet's wondrous birth—Rich rays, rare footprints on the dust of earth.

Not life, the vassal of the changeful hour,Nor burdened bliss, but Truth and Love attestThe solemn splendor of immortal power,—The ever Christ, and glorified behest,Poured on the sense which deems no suffering vainThat wipes away the sting of death—sin, pain.

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,April 18, 1900.

To rise in the morning and drink in the view—The home where I dwell in the vale,The blossoms whose fragrance and charms ever newAre scattered o'er hillside and dale;To gaze on the sunbeams enkindling the sky—A loftier life to invite—A light that illumines my spiritual eye,And inspires my pen as I write;To form resolutions, with strength from on high,Such physical laws to obey,As reason with appetite, pleasures deny,That health may my efforts repay;To kneel at the altar of mercy and prayThat pardon and grace, through His Son,May comfort my soul all the wearisome day,And cheer me with hope when 'tis done;To daily remember my blessings and charge,And make this my humble request:Increase Thou my faith and my vision enlarge,And bless me with Christ's promised rest;To hourly seek for deliverance strongFrom selfishness, sinfulness, dearth,From vanity, folly, and all that is wrong—With ambition that binds us to earth;To kindly pass over a wound, or a foe(And mem'ry but part us awhile),To breathe forth a prayer that His love I may know,Whose mercies my sorrows beguile,—If these resolutions are acted up to,And faith spreads her pinions abroad,'Twill be sweet when I ponder the days may be fewThat waft me away to my God.Written in girlhood.

To rise in the morning and drink in the view—The home where I dwell in the vale,The blossoms whose fragrance and charms ever newAre scattered o'er hillside and dale;

To gaze on the sunbeams enkindling the sky—A loftier life to invite—A light that illumines my spiritual eye,And inspires my pen as I write;

To form resolutions, with strength from on high,Such physical laws to obey,As reason with appetite, pleasures deny,That health may my efforts repay;

To kneel at the altar of mercy and prayThat pardon and grace, through His Son,May comfort my soul all the wearisome day,And cheer me with hope when 'tis done;

To daily remember my blessings and charge,And make this my humble request:Increase Thou my faith and my vision enlarge,And bless me with Christ's promised rest;

To hourly seek for deliverance strongFrom selfishness, sinfulness, dearth,From vanity, folly, and all that is wrong—With ambition that binds us to earth;

To kindly pass over a wound, or a foe(And mem'ry but part us awhile),To breathe forth a prayer that His love I may know,Whose mercies my sorrows beguile,—

If these resolutions are acted up to,And faith spreads her pinions abroad,'Twill be sweet when I ponder the days may be fewThat waft me away to my God.

Written in girlhood.

O for thy wings, sweet bird!And soul of melody by being blest—Like thee, my voice had stirredSome dear remembrance in a weary breast.But whither wouldst thou rove,Bird of the airy wing, and fold thy plumes?In what dark leafy groveWouldst chant thy vespers 'mid rich glooms?Or sing thy love-lorn note—In deeper solitude, where nymph or saintHas wooed some mystic spot,Divinely desolate the shrine to paint?Yet wherefore ask thy doom?Blessed compared with me thou art—Unto thy greenwood homeBearing no bitter memory at heart;Wearing no earthly chain,Thou canst in azure bright soar far above;Nor pinest thou in vainO'er joys departed, unforgotten love.O take me to thy bower!Beguile the lagging hours of wearinessWith strain which hath strange powerTo make me love thee as I love life less!From mortal consciousnessWhich binds to earth—infirmity of woe!Or pining tenderness—Whose streams will never dry or cease to flow;An aching, voiceless void,Hushed in the heart whereunto none reply,And in the cringing crowdCompanionless! Bird, bear me through the sky!Written more than sixty years ago for theNew Hampshire Patriot.

O for thy wings, sweet bird!And soul of melody by being blest—Like thee, my voice had stirredSome dear remembrance in a weary breast.

But whither wouldst thou rove,Bird of the airy wing, and fold thy plumes?In what dark leafy groveWouldst chant thy vespers 'mid rich glooms?

Or sing thy love-lorn note—In deeper solitude, where nymph or saintHas wooed some mystic spot,Divinely desolate the shrine to paint?

Yet wherefore ask thy doom?Blessed compared with me thou art—Unto thy greenwood homeBearing no bitter memory at heart;

Wearing no earthly chain,Thou canst in azure bright soar far above;Nor pinest thou in vainO'er joys departed, unforgotten love.

O take me to thy bower!Beguile the lagging hours of wearinessWith strain which hath strange powerTo make me love thee as I love life less!

From mortal consciousnessWhich binds to earth—infirmity of woe!Or pining tenderness—Whose streams will never dry or cease to flow;

An aching, voiceless void,Hushed in the heart whereunto none reply,And in the cringing crowdCompanionless! Bird, bear me through the sky!

Written more than sixty years ago for theNew Hampshire Patriot.

Come, in the minstrel's lay;When two hearts meet,And true hearts greet,And all is morn and May.Come Thou! and now, anew,To thought and deedGive sober speed,Thy will to know, and do.Stay! till the storms are o'er—The cold blasts done,The reign of heaven begun,And Love, the evermore.Be patient, waiting heart:Light, Love divineIs here, and thine;You therefore cannot part."The seasons come and go:Love, like the sea,Rolls on with thee,—But knows no ebb and flow."Faith, hope, and tears, triune,Above the sodFind peace in God,And one eternal noon."Oh, Thou hast heard my prayer;And I am blest!This is Thy high behest:Thou, here andeverywhere.

Come, in the minstrel's lay;When two hearts meet,And true hearts greet,And all is morn and May.

Come Thou! and now, anew,To thought and deedGive sober speed,Thy will to know, and do.

Stay! till the storms are o'er—The cold blasts done,The reign of heaven begun,And Love, the evermore.

Be patient, waiting heart:Light, Love divineIs here, and thine;You therefore cannot part.

"The seasons come and go:Love, like the sea,Rolls on with thee,—But knows no ebb and flow.

"Faith, hope, and tears, triune,Above the sodFind peace in God,And one eternal noon."

Oh, Thou hast heard my prayer;And I am blest!This is Thy high behest:Thou, here andeverywhere.

To the editor of theItem, Lynn, Mass.I hope the heart that's hungryFor things above the floor,Will find within its portalsAn item rich in store;That melancholy mortalsWill count their mercies o'er,And learn that Truth and wisdomHave many items more;That when a wrong is done us,It stirs no thought of strife;And Love becomes the substance,As item, of our life;That every ragged urchin,With bare feet soiled or sore,Share God's most tender mercies,—Find items at our door.Then if we've done to othersSome good ne'er told before,When angels shall repeat it,'Twill be an item more.

To the editor of theItem, Lynn, Mass.

I hope the heart that's hungryFor things above the floor,Will find within its portalsAn item rich in store;

That melancholy mortalsWill count their mercies o'er,And learn that Truth and wisdomHave many items more;

That when a wrong is done us,It stirs no thought of strife;And Love becomes the substance,As item, of our life;

That every ragged urchin,With bare feet soiled or sore,Share God's most tender mercies,—Find items at our door.

Then if we've done to othersSome good ne'er told before,When angels shall repeat it,'Twill be an item more.

Author of all divineGifts, lofty, pure, and free,Temperance and truth in song sublimeAn offering bring to Thee!A temple, whose high domeRose from a water-cup;And from its altar to Thy throneMay we press on and up!And she—last at the cross,First at the tomb, who waits—Woman—will watch to cleanse from drossThe cause she elevates.Sons of the old Bay State,Work for our glorious cause!And be your waiting hearts elate,Since temperance makes your laws."Temples of Honor," all,"Social," or grand, or great,This blazoned, brilliant temperance hallTo Thee we dedicate."Good Templars" one and all,Good "Sons," and daughters, too,We dedicate this temperance hallTo God, to Truth, and you!Lynn, Mass.,August 4, 1866.

Author of all divineGifts, lofty, pure, and free,Temperance and truth in song sublimeAn offering bring to Thee!

A temple, whose high domeRose from a water-cup;And from its altar to Thy throneMay we press on and up!

And she—last at the cross,First at the tomb, who waits—Woman—will watch to cleanse from drossThe cause she elevates.

Sons of the old Bay State,Work for our glorious cause!And be your waiting hearts elate,Since temperance makes your laws.

"Temples of Honor," all,"Social," or grand, or great,This blazoned, brilliant temperance hallTo Thee we dedicate.

"Good Templars" one and all,Good "Sons," and daughters, too,We dedicate this temperance hallTo God, to Truth, and you!

Lynn, Mass.,August 4, 1866.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer.—Moore.Was that fold for the lambkin soft virtue's repose,Where the weary and earth-stricken lay down their woes,—When the fountain and leaflet are frozen and sere,And the mountains more friendless,—their home is not here?When the herd had forsaken, and left them to strayFrom the green sunny slopes of the woodland away;Where the music of waters had fled to the sea,And this life but one given to suffer and be?Was it then thou didst call them to banish all pain,And the harpstring, just breaking, reecho againTo a strain of enchantment that flowed as the wave,Where they waited to welcome the murmur it gave?Oh, there's never a shadow where sunshine is not,And never the sunshine without a dark spot;Yet there's one will be victor, for glory and fame,Without heart to define them, were only a name!Lynn, Mass.,February 19, 1868.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer.—Moore.

Was that fold for the lambkin soft virtue's repose,Where the weary and earth-stricken lay down their woes,—When the fountain and leaflet are frozen and sere,And the mountains more friendless,—their home is not here?

When the herd had forsaken, and left them to strayFrom the green sunny slopes of the woodland away;Where the music of waters had fled to the sea,And this life but one given to suffer and be?

Was it then thou didst call them to banish all pain,And the harpstring, just breaking, reecho againTo a strain of enchantment that flowed as the wave,Where they waited to welcome the murmur it gave?

Oh, there's never a shadow where sunshine is not,And never the sunshine without a dark spot;Yet there's one will be victor, for glory and fame,Without heart to define them, were only a name!

Lynn, Mass.,February 19, 1868.

Who sent me the picture depictive of Isaiah xi.Jesus loves you! so does mother:Glad thy Eastertide:Loving God and one another,You in Him abide.Ours through Him who gave you to us,—Gentle as the dove,Fondling e'en the lion furious,Leading kine with love.Father, in Thy great heart hold themEver thus as Thine!Shield and guide and guard them; and, whenAt some siren shrineThey would lay their pure hearts' off'ring,Light with wisdom's ray—Beacon beams—athwart the weakly,Rough or treacherous way.Temper every trembling footfall,Till they gain at last—Safe in Science, bright with glory—Just the way Thou hast:Then, O tender Love and wisdom,Crown the lives thus blestWith the guerdon of Thy bosom,Whereon they may rest!Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,April 3, 1899.

Who sent me the picture depictive of Isaiah xi.

Jesus loves you! so does mother:Glad thy Eastertide:Loving God and one another,You in Him abide.Ours through Him who gave you to us,—Gentle as the dove,Fondling e'en the lion furious,Leading kine with love.

Father, in Thy great heart hold themEver thus as Thine!Shield and guide and guard them; and, whenAt some siren shrineThey would lay their pure hearts' off'ring,Light with wisdom's ray—Beacon beams—athwart the weakly,Rough or treacherous way.

Temper every trembling footfall,Till they gain at last—Safe in Science, bright with glory—Just the way Thou hast:Then, O tender Love and wisdom,Crown the lives thus blestWith the guerdon of Thy bosom,Whereon they may rest!

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H.,April 3, 1899.

Tis borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour;It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower,—An infinite essence from tropic to pole,The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul.Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower,And loosens the fetters of pride and of power;It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain,To beautify, bless, and make joyful again.The harp of the minstrel, the treasure of time;A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine;The God-given mandate that speaks from above,—No place for earth's idols, but hope thou, and love.

Tis borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour;It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower,—An infinite essence from tropic to pole,The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul.

Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower,And loosens the fetters of pride and of power;It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain,To beautify, bless, and make joyful again.

The harp of the minstrel, the treasure of time;A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine;The God-given mandate that speaks from above,—No place for earth's idols, but hope thou, and love.

Fair girl, thy rosebud heart rests warmWithin life's summer bowers!Nor blasts of winter's angry storm,Nor April's changeful showers,Its leaves have shed or bowed the stem;But gracefully it stands—A gem in beauty's diadem,Unplucked by ruthless hands.Thus may it ripen into bloom,Fresh as the fragrant sod,And yield its beauty and perfumeAn offering pure to God.Sweet as the poetry of heaven,Bright as her evening star,Be all thy life in music given,While beauty fills each bar.Lynn, Mass.,December 8, 1866.

Fair girl, thy rosebud heart rests warmWithin life's summer bowers!Nor blasts of winter's angry storm,Nor April's changeful showers,

Its leaves have shed or bowed the stem;But gracefully it stands—A gem in beauty's diadem,Unplucked by ruthless hands.

Thus may it ripen into bloom,Fresh as the fragrant sod,And yield its beauty and perfumeAn offering pure to God.

Sweet as the poetry of heaven,Bright as her evening star,Be all thy life in music given,While beauty fills each bar.

Lynn, Mass.,December 8, 1866.

Are the dear days ever coming again,As sweetly they came of yore,Singing the olden and dainty refrain,Oh, ever and nevermore?Ever to gladness and never to tears,Ever the gross world above;Never to toiling and never to fears,Ever to Truth and to Love?Can the forever of happiness beOutside this ever of pain?Will the hereafter from suffering freeThe weary of body and brain?Weary of sobbing, like some tired childOver the tears it has shed;Weary of sowing the wayside and wild,Watching the husbandman fled;Nevermore reaping the harvest we deem,Evermore gathering in woe—Say, are the sheaves and the gladness a dream,Or to the patient who sow?Lynn, Mass.,September 3, 1871.

Are the dear days ever coming again,As sweetly they came of yore,Singing the olden and dainty refrain,Oh, ever and nevermore?

Ever to gladness and never to tears,Ever the gross world above;Never to toiling and never to fears,Ever to Truth and to Love?

Can the forever of happiness beOutside this ever of pain?Will the hereafter from suffering freeThe weary of body and brain?

Weary of sobbing, like some tired childOver the tears it has shed;Weary of sowing the wayside and wild,Watching the husbandman fled;

Nevermore reaping the harvest we deem,Evermore gathering in woe—Say, are the sheaves and the gladness a dream,Or to the patient who sow?

Lynn, Mass.,September 3, 1871.

Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark is pastThe dangerous sea, and safely moored at last—Beyond rough foam.Soft gales celestial, in sweet music bore—Spirit emancipate for this far shore—Thee to thy home."You've traveled long, and far from mortal joys,To Soul's diviner sense, that spurns such toys,Brave wrestler, lone.Now see thy ever-self; Life never fled;Man is not mortal, never of the dead:The dark unknown."When hope soared high, and joy was eagle-plumed,Thy pinions drooped; the flesh was weak, and doomedTo pass away.But faith triumphant round thy death-couch shedMajestic forms; and radiant glory spedThe dawning day."Intensely grand and glorious life's sphere,—Beyond the shadow, infinite appearLife, Love divine,—Where mortal yearnings come not, sighs are stilled,And home and peace and hearts are found and filled,Thine, ever thine."Bearest thou no tidings from our loved on earth,The toiler tireless for Truth's new birthAll-unbeguiled?Our joy is gathered from her parting sigh:This hour looks on her heart with pitying eye,—What of my child?""When, severed by death's dream, I woke to Life,She deemed I died, and could not know the strifeAt first to fillThat waking with a love that steady turnsTo God; a hope that ever upward yearns,Bowed to His will."Years had passed o'er thy broken household band,When angels beckoned me to this bright land,With thee to meet.She that has wept o'er thee, kissed my cold brow,Rears the sad marble to our memory now,In lone retreat."By the remembrance of her loyal life,And parting prayer, I only know my wife,Thy child, shall come—Where farewells cloud not o'er our ransomed rest—Hither to reap, with all the crowned and blest,Of bliss the sum."When Love's rapt sense the heartstrings gently sweepWith joy divinely fair, the high and deep,To call her home,She shall mount upward unto purer skies;We shall be waiting, in what glad surprise,Our spirits' own!"

"You've traveled long, and far from mortal joys,To Soul's diviner sense, that spurns such toys,Brave wrestler, lone.Now see thy ever-self; Life never fled;Man is not mortal, never of the dead:The dark unknown.

"When hope soared high, and joy was eagle-plumed,Thy pinions drooped; the flesh was weak, and doomedTo pass away.But faith triumphant round thy death-couch shedMajestic forms; and radiant glory spedThe dawning day.

"Intensely grand and glorious life's sphere,—Beyond the shadow, infinite appearLife, Love divine,—Where mortal yearnings come not, sighs are stilled,And home and peace and hearts are found and filled,Thine, ever thine.

"Bearest thou no tidings from our loved on earth,The toiler tireless for Truth's new birthAll-unbeguiled?Our joy is gathered from her parting sigh:This hour looks on her heart with pitying eye,—What of my child?"

"When, severed by death's dream, I woke to Life,She deemed I died, and could not know the strifeAt first to fillThat waking with a love that steady turnsTo God; a hope that ever upward yearns,Bowed to His will.

"Years had passed o'er thy broken household band,When angels beckoned me to this bright land,With thee to meet.She that has wept o'er thee, kissed my cold brow,Rears the sad marble to our memory now,In lone retreat.

"By the remembrance of her loyal life,And parting prayer, I only know my wife,Thy child, shall come—Where farewells cloud not o'er our ransomed rest—Hither to reap, with all the crowned and blest,Of bliss the sum.

"When Love's rapt sense the heartstrings gently sweepWith joy divinely fair, the high and deep,To call her home,She shall mount upward unto purer skies;We shall be waiting, in what glad surprise,Our spirits' own!"

On receiving a painting of the Isle.Isle of beauty, thou art singingTo my sense a sweet refrain;To my busy mem'ry bringingScenes that I would see again.Chief, the charm of thy reflecting,Is the moral that it brings;Nature, with the mind connecting,Gives the artist's fancy wings.Soul, sublime 'mid humandébris,Paints the limner's work, I ween,Art and Science, all unweary,Lighting up this mortal dream.Work ill-done within the mistyMine of human thoughts, we seeSoon abandoned when the MasterCrowns life's Cliff for such as we.Students wise, he maketh now thusThose who fish in waters deep,When the buried Master hails usFrom the shores afar, complete.Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordlingIn a beauty strong and meekAs the rock, whose upward tendingPoints the plane of power to seek.Isle of beauty, thou art teachingLessons long and grand, tonight,To my heart that would be bleachingTo thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight.

On receiving a painting of the Isle.

Isle of beauty, thou art singingTo my sense a sweet refrain;To my busy mem'ry bringingScenes that I would see again.

Chief, the charm of thy reflecting,Is the moral that it brings;Nature, with the mind connecting,Gives the artist's fancy wings.

Soul, sublime 'mid humandébris,Paints the limner's work, I ween,Art and Science, all unweary,Lighting up this mortal dream.

Work ill-done within the mistyMine of human thoughts, we seeSoon abandoned when the MasterCrowns life's Cliff for such as we.

Students wise, he maketh now thusThose who fish in waters deep,When the buried Master hails usFrom the shores afar, complete.

Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordlingIn a beauty strong and meekAs the rock, whose upward tendingPoints the plane of power to seek.

Isle of beauty, thou art teachingLessons long and grand, tonight,To my heart that would be bleachingTo thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight.

Come to thy bowers, sweet spring,And paint the gray, stark trees,The bud, the leaf and wing—Bring with thee brush and breeze.And soft thy shading layOn vale and woodland deep;With sunshine's lovely rayLight o'er the rugged steep.More softly warm and weaveThe patient, timid grass,Till heard at silvery evePoor robin's lonely mass.Bid faithful swallows comeAnd build their cozy nests,Where wind nor storm can numbTheir downy little breasts.Come at the sad heart's call,To empty summer bowers,Where still and dead are allThe vernal songs and flowers.It may be months or yearsSince joyous spring was there.O come to clouds and tearsWith light and song and prayer!

Come to thy bowers, sweet spring,And paint the gray, stark trees,The bud, the leaf and wing—Bring with thee brush and breeze.

And soft thy shading layOn vale and woodland deep;With sunshine's lovely rayLight o'er the rugged steep.

More softly warm and weaveThe patient, timid grass,Till heard at silvery evePoor robin's lonely mass.

Bid faithful swallows comeAnd build their cozy nests,Where wind nor storm can numbTheir downy little breasts.

Come at the sad heart's call,To empty summer bowers,Where still and dead are allThe vernal songs and flowers.

It may be months or yearsSince joyous spring was there.O come to clouds and tearsWith light and song and prayer!

Whence are thy wooings, gentle June?Thou hast a naiad's charm;Thy breezes scent the rose's breath;Old Time gives thee her palm.The lark's shrill song doth wake the dawn:The eve-bird's forest fluteGives back some maiden melody,Too pure for aught so mute.The fairy-peopled world of flowers,Enraptured by thy spell,Looks love unto the laughing hours,Through woodland, grove, and dell;And soft thy footstep falls uponThe verdant grass it weaves;To melting murmurs ye have stirredThe timid, trembling leaves.When sunshine beautifies the shower,As smiles through teardrops seen,Ask of its June, the long-hushed heart,What hath the record been?And thou wilt find that harmonies,In which the Soul hath part,Ne'er perish young, like things of earth,In records of the heart.

The fairy-peopled world of flowers,Enraptured by thy spell,Looks love unto the laughing hours,Through woodland, grove, and dell;And soft thy footstep falls uponThe verdant grass it weaves;To melting murmurs ye have stirredThe timid, trembling leaves.

When sunshine beautifies the shower,As smiles through teardrops seen,Ask of its June, the long-hushed heart,What hath the record been?And thou wilt find that harmonies,In which the Soul hath part,Ne'er perish young, like things of earth,In records of the heart.

The flowers of JuneThe gates of memory unbar:The flowers of JuneSuch old-time harmonies retune,I fain would keep the gates ajar,—So full of sweet enchantment areThe flowers of June.—James T. White.

The flowers of JuneThe gates of memory unbar:The flowers of JuneSuch old-time harmonies retune,I fain would keep the gates ajar,—So full of sweet enchantment areThe flowers of June.

—James T. White.

Who loves not JuneIs out of tuneWith love and God;The rose his rival reigns,The stars reject his pains,His home the clod!And yet I trow,When sweetrondeauDoth play a part,The curtain drops on June;Veiled is the modest moon—Hushed is the heart.

Who loves not JuneIs out of tuneWith love and God;The rose his rival reigns,The stars reject his pains,His home the clod!

And yet I trow,When sweetrondeauDoth play a part,The curtain drops on June;Veiled is the modest moon—Hushed is the heart.

Quickly earth's jewels disappear;The turf, whereon I tread,Ere autumn blanch another year,May rest above my head.Touched by the finger of decayIs every earthly love;For joy, to shun my weary way,Is registered above.The languid brooklets yield their sighs,A requiem o'er the tombOf sunny days and cloudless skies,Enhancing autumn's gloom.The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan,To scare my woodland walk,And frightened fancy flees, to roamWhere ghosts and goblins stalk.The cricket's sharp, discordant screamFills mortal sense with dread;More sorrowful it scarce could seem;It voices beauty fled.Yet here, upon this faded sod,—O happy hours and fleet,—When songsters' matin hymns to GodAre poured in strains so sweet,My heart unbidden joins rehearse,I hope it's better made,When mingling with the universe,Beneath the maple's shade.Written in girlhood, in a maple grove.

Quickly earth's jewels disappear;The turf, whereon I tread,Ere autumn blanch another year,May rest above my head.

Touched by the finger of decayIs every earthly love;For joy, to shun my weary way,Is registered above.

The languid brooklets yield their sighs,A requiem o'er the tombOf sunny days and cloudless skies,Enhancing autumn's gloom.

The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan,To scare my woodland walk,And frightened fancy flees, to roamWhere ghosts and goblins stalk.

The cricket's sharp, discordant screamFills mortal sense with dread;More sorrowful it scarce could seem;It voices beauty fled.

Yet here, upon this faded sod,—O happy hours and fleet,—When songsters' matin hymns to GodAre poured in strains so sweet,

My heart unbidden joins rehearse,I hope it's better made,When mingling with the universe,Beneath the maple's shade.

Written in girlhood, in a maple grove.

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