Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 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, And with childlike, credulous affection THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldan's rushing stream, No other voice nor sound was there, But, when the old cathedral bell Down the broad valley, fast and far, Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, And when the solemn and deep church bell The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, A king,-a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,- Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 66 Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No stain from its breath is spread No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest For there shall come a mightier blast, And the stars, from heaven down-cast, L'ENVOI. YE voices, that arose And whispered to my restless heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!" Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! Go, mingle yet once more Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! Tongues of the dead, not lost, Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Of the vast plain where Death encamps! Earlier Poems. [WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING MY COLLEGE LIFE, AND ALL OF THEM BEFORE THE AGE OF NINETEEN.] WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN Winter winds are piercing chill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear I hear it in the opening year,- AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings |