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THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.-FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
THE LIGHT OF STARS.
Is our destined end or way;
THE night is come, but not too soon;
All silently, the little moon
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
There is no light in earth or heaven
Is it the tender star of love?
The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above,
And earnest thoughts within me rise,
O star of strength! I see thee stand
Within my breast there is no light
I give the first watch of the night
The star of the unconquered will,
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
O fear not in a world like this,
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
WHEN the hours of Day are numbered,
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
He, the young and strong, who cherished
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;
These in flowers and men are more than seeming; | Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield;
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
THE BELEAGUERED CITY.-MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 15
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;
AN APRIL DAY.-AUTUMN.-WOODS IN WINTER.
[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortune beyond the say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."]
The softly-warbled song
And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
When the bright sunset fills
And wide the upland glows.
Inverted in the tide
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
Sweet April! many a thought
WITH what a glory comes and goes the year!
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teach ings.
WOODS IN WINTER.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I listen, and it cheers me long.