THE RANGER.

Turns my heart, forever trying

Some new hope for each new day.

"When the shadows veil the meadows,
And the sunset's golden ladders

Sink from twilight's walls of gray—
From the window of my dreaming,
I can see his sickle gleaming,
Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming
Down the locust-shaded way;
But away, swift away

Fades the fond, delusive seeming,
And I kneel, again to pray.

"When the growing dawn is showing,
And the barn-yard cock is crowing,
And the horned moon pales away:
From a dream of him awaking,
Every sound my heart is making
Seems a footstep of his taking;
Then I hush the thought, and say,
Nay, nay, he's away!'

Ah! my heart, my heart is breaking
For the dear one far away."

Look up, Martha! worn and swarthy,
Glows a face of manhood worthy :
"Robert!" "Martha!" all they say
O'er went wheel and reel together,
Little cared the owner whither;
Heart of lead is heart of feather,
Noon of night is noon of day!
Come away, come away!

When such lovers meet each other,
Why should prying idlers stay?

Quench the timber's fallen embers,
Quench the red leaves in December's
Hoary rime and chilly spray.

265

But the hearth shall kindle clearer,
Household welcomes sound sincerer,
Heart to loving heart draw nearer,
When the bridal bells shall say:
"Hope and pray, trust alway;
Life is sweeter, love is dearer,
For the trial and delay !”

LATER POEMS.

1856-7.

LATER POEMS.

THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.

I.

O'ER the bare woods, whose outstretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain,

I see, beyond the valley lands,

The sea's long level dim with rain. Around me all things, stark and dumb, Seem praying for the snows to come,

And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone, With winter's sunset lights and dazzling morn

atone.

II.

Along the river's summer walk,

The withered tufts of asters nod; And trembles on its arid stalk,

The hoar plume of the golden-rod.

And on a ground of sombre fir,

And azure-studded juniper,

The silver birch its buds of purple shows,

And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild rose !

III.

With mingled sound of horns and bells,
A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly,
Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells,
Like a great arrow through the sky,