Here let me lie, and press My forehead's pain out on Thy mantle's hem; And chide not my distress, For this, that I have loved thee less, In loving so much some, whose sordidness Has left me outcast, at the last, from them And their poor love, which I cannot contemn.

No, cannot, even now, Put Thee before them in my broken heart. But, gentle Shepherd, Thou Dost even such as I allow The healing of Thy presence. Let my brow Be covered from thy sight, while I, apart, Brood over in dull pain my mortal hurt.

CHILDHOOD.

A child of scarcely seven years, Light haired, and fair as any lily; With pure eyes ready in their tears At chiding words, or glances chilly; And sudden smiles, as inly bright As lamps through alabaster shining, With ready mirth, and fancies light, Dashed with strange dreams of child-divining: A child in all infantile grace, Yet with the angel lingering in her face.

A curious, eager, questioning child, Whose logic leads to naive conclusions; Her little knowledge reconciled To truth amid some odd confusions; Yet credulous, and loving much The problems hardest for her reason, Placing her lovely faith on such, And deeming disbelief a treason; Doubting that which she can disprove, And wisely trusting all the rest to love.

Such graces dwell beside your hearth, And bless you in a priceless pleasure, Leaving no sweeter spot on earth Than that which holds your household treasure. No entertainment ever yet Had half the exquisite completeness— The gladness without one regret, You gather from your darling's sweetness: An angel sits beside the hearth Where e're an innocent child is found on earth.

A LITTLE BIRD THAT EVERY ONE KNOWS.

There's a little bird with a wondrous song— A little bird that every one knows— (Though it sings for the most part under the rose), That is petted and pampered wherever it goes, And nourished in bosoms gentle and strong.

This petted bird has a crooked beak And eyes like live coals set in its head, A gray breast dappled with glowing red— DABBLED—not dappled, I should have said, From a fancy it has of which I shall speak.

This eccentricity that I name Is, that whenever the bird would sing It darts its black head under its wing, And moistens its beak in—darling thing!— A human heart that is broken with shame.

Then this cherished bird its song begins— Always begins its song one way— With two little dulcet words, THEY SAY, Carolled in such a charming way That the listener's heart it surely wins.

This sweetest of songsters sits beside Every hearth in this Christian land, Ever so humble or never so grand, Gloating o'er crumbs which many a hand Gathers to nourish it, far and wide.

Over each crumb that it gathers up It winningly carols those two soft words In the dulcet notes of the sweetest of birds, Darting its sharp beak under its wing As it might in a ruby drinking-cup.

A delicate thing is our bird withal And owns but a fickle appetite, So that old and young take a keen delight In serving it ever, day and night, With the last gay heart now turned to gall.

Thus, though a dainty dear, it sings In a very well-conditioned way A truly wonderful sort of lay, Whose burden is ever the same—THEY SAY— Darting its dabbled beak under its wings.

WAYWARD LOVE.

I leant above your chair last night, And on your brow once and again, I pressed a kiss as still and light As I would have your bosom's pain. You did not feel the gentle touch, It gave you neither grief nor pleasure, Though that caress held, oh, so much, Of love and blessing without measure.

Thus ever when I see you sad, My heart toward you overflows; But when again you're gay and glad, I shrink back into cold repose, I know not why I like you best, O'erclouded by a passing sorrow— Unless because it gives a zest To the insouciance of to-morrow.

You're welcome to my light caress, And all the love that with it went; To live, and love you any less, Would rob me of my soul's content. Continue sometimes to be sad, That I may feel that pity tender, Which grieves for you, and yet is glad Of an excuse for love's surrender.

A LYRIC OF LIFE.

Said one to me: "I seem to be— Like a bird blown out to sea, In the hurricane's wild track— Lost, wing-weary, beating back Vainly toward a fading shore, It shall rest on nevermore."

Said I: "Betide, some good ships ride, Over all the waters wide; Spread your wings upon the blast, Let it bear you far and fast: In some sea, serene and blue, Succor-ships are waiting you."

This soul then said: "Would I were dead— Billows rolling o'er my head! Those that sail the ships will cast Storm-waifs back into the blast; Omens evil will they call What the hurricane lets fall."

For my reply: "Beneath the sky Countless isles of beauty lie: Waifs upon the ocean thrown, After tossings long and lone, To those blessed shores have come, Finding there love, heaven, and home."

This soul to me: "The seething sea, Tossing hungry under me, I fear to trust; the ships I fear; I see no isle of beauty near; The sun is blotted out—no more 'Twill shine for me on any shore."

Once more I said: "Be not afraid; Yield to the storm without a dread; For the tree, by tempests torn From its native soil, is borne Green, to where its ripened fruit Gives a sturdy forest-root.

"That which we lose, we think we choose, Oft, from slavery to use. Shocks that break our chains, tho' rude, Open paths to highest good: Wise, my sister soul, is she Who takes of life the proffered key."

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

"Nay, Hylas, I have come To where life's landscape takes a western slope, And breezes from the occidental shores Sigh thro' the thinning locks around my brow, And on my cheeks fan flickering summer fires. Oh, winged feet of Time, forget your flight, And let me dream of those rose-scented bowers That lapped my soul in youth's enchanted East! It needs no demon-essence of Hasheesh To flash that sunrise glory in my eyes!— It needs no Flora to bring back those flowers— No gay Apollo to sound liquid reeds— No muse to consecrate the hills and streams— No God or oracle within those groves To render sacred all the emerald glooms: For here dwelt such bright angels as attend The innocent ways of youth's unsullied feet; And all the beautiful band of sinless hopes, Twining their crowns of pearl-white amaranth; And rosy, dream-draped, sapphire-eyed desires Whose twin-born deities were Truth and Faith Having their altars over all the land. Beauty held court within its vales by day, And Love made concert with the nightingales In singing 'mong the myrtles, starry eves."

"You are inspired, Zobedia, your eyes Look not upon the present summer world, But see some mystery beyond the close Of this pale blue horizon."

"Erewhile I wandered from this happy land. Crowned with its roses, wearing in my eyes Reflections of its shining glorious heaven, And bearing on my breast and in my hands Its violets, and lilies white and sweet,— Following the music floating in the air Made by the fall of founts, the voice of streams And murmur of the winds among the trees, I strayed in reveries of soft delight Beyond the bounds of this delicious East.

"But oh, the splendors of that newer clime! It was as if those oriental dreams In which my soul was steeped to fervidness, Were here transmuted to their golden real With added glories for each shape or hue. The stately trees wore coronals of flowers That swung their censers in the mid-day sun: The pines and palms of my delightful east Chaunted their wild songs nearer to the stars; Even the roses had more exquisite hues, And for one blossom I had left behind I found a bower in this fragrant land. Bright birds, no larger than the costly gems The river bedded in their golden sands, Sparkle like prismal rain-drops 'mong the leaves; And others sang, or flashed their plumage gay Like rainbow fragments on my dazzled eyes. The sky had warmer teints: I could not tell Whether the heavens lent color to the flowers, Or but reflected that which glowed in them. The gales that blew from off the cloud-lost hills, Struck from the clambering vines Eolian songs, That mingled with the splashing noise of founts, In music such as stirs to passionate thought: This peerless land was thronged with souls like mine, Straying from East to South, impelled unseen, And lost, like mine, in its enchanted vales:— Souls that conversed apart in pairs, or sang Low breeze-like airs, more tender than sweet words; Save here and there a wanderer like myself, Dreaming alone, and dropping silent tears, Scarce knowing why, upon the little group Of Eastern flowers we had not yet resigned:— 'Till one came softly smiling in my eyes, And dried their tears with radiance from his own.

"At last it came—I knew not how it came— But a tornado swept this sunny South, And when I woke once more, I stood alone. My senses sickened at the dismal waste, And caring not, now all things bright were dead, That a volcano rolled its burning tide In fiery rivers far athwart the land, I turned my feet to aimless wanderings. The equatorial sun poured scorching beams, On my defenceless head. The burning winds Seemed drying up the blood within my veins. The straggling flowers that had outlived the storm Won but a feeble, half-contemptuous smile; And if a bird attempted a brief song, I closed my ears lest it should burst my brain. After much wandering I came at last To cooler skies and a less stifling air; And finally to this more temperate clime. Where every beauty is of milder type— Where the simoon nor tempest ever come, And I can soothe the fever of my soul In the bland breezes blowing from the West."

NEVADA.

Sphinx, down whose rugged face The sliding centuries their furrows cleave By sun and frost and cloud-burst; scarce to leave Perceptible a trace Of age or sorrow; Faint hints of yesterdays with no to-morrow;— My mind regards thee with a questioning eye, To know thy secret, high.

If Theban mystery, With head of woman, soaring, bird-like wings And serpent's tail on lion's trunk, were things Puzzling in history; And men invented For it an origin which represented Chimera and a monster double-headed, By myths Phenician wedded—

Their issue being this— This most chimerical and wonderous thing From whose dumb mouth not even the gods could wring Truth, nor antithesis: Then, what I think is, This creature—being chief among men's sphinxes— Is eloquent, and overflows with story, Beside thy silence hoary!

Nevada!—desert waste! Mighty, and inhospitable, and stern; Hiding a meaning over which we yearn In eager, panting haste— Grasping and losing, Still being deluded ever by our choosing— Answer us Sphinx: What is thy meaning double But endless toil and trouble?

Inscrutable, men strive To rend thy secret from thy rocky breast; Breaking their hearts, and periling heaven's rest For hopes that cannot thrive; Whilst unrelenting, Upon thy mountain throne, and unrepenting, Thou sittest, basking in a fervid sun, Seeing or hearing none.

I sit beneath thy stars, The shallop moon beached on a bank of clouds—; And see thy mountains wrapped in shadowed shrouds, Glad that the darkness bars The day's suggestion— The endless repetition of one question; Glad that thy stony face I cannot see, Nevada—Mystery!

THE VINE.

"Too many clusters weaken the vine"— And that is why, on this morn in May, She who should walk doth weakly recline By the window whose view overlooks the Bay; While I and the "clusters" dance in the sun, Defying the breeze coming in from the sea, Mocking the bird-song and chasing the bee, Letting our fullness of mirth over-run, While the "Vine" at the window smiles down on our glee.

If I should vow that these "clusters" are fair, So, you would say, are a million more; Ah, even jewels a rank must share— Not every diamond's a Koh-i-noor! Thus when our LILLIAN, needing but wings, Plays us the queen of the fairies, we deem Grace such as hers a bewildering dream— Her laughter, her gestures, a dozen things, Furnish our worshiping fondness a theme.

Or when our ALICE, scarcely less tall, And none the less fair, tries her slim baby feet, Or a new has lisped, to the pride of us all, Smiling, we cry, "was aught ever so sweet?" Even wee BERTHA, turning her eyes, Searching and slow from one face to another— Wrinkling her brow in a comic surprise, And winking so soberly at her pale mother, For a baby, is wondrously pretty and wise!

Well, let the "vine" recline in the sun— Three such rare "clusters" in three short years, Have sapped the red wine in her veins that should run— For the choicest of species the gardener fears! LILLIAN, queen of the lilies shall be, Fair, tall and graceful—queenly in will; ALICE a Provence rose—rarely sweet she; BERTHA NARCISSA—white daffodil— And the "vine," once more strong, shall entwine around the three!

WHAT THE SEA SAID TO ME.

One evening as I sat beside the sea, A little rippling wave stole up to me, And whispered softly, yet impressively, The word Eternity: I smiled, that anything so small should utter, A word the ocean in its wrath might mutter; And with a mirthful fancy, vainly strove, To suit its cadence to some word of love— But all the little wave would say to me, Was, over and again, Eternity!

After a time, the winds, from their dark caves, Arose, and wrestled with the swelling waves, Shrieking as doth a madman when he raves; Yet still Eternity Was spoken audibly unto my hearing; While foaming billows, their huge crests up-rearing, Rushed with a furious force upon the shore, That only answered with a sullen roar; As if it hoarsely echoed what the sea Said with such emphasis—Eternity!

And by and by, the sky grew dun and dim; Soon all was darkness, save the foam's white gleam; And all was silence save the sea's deep hymn— That hymn Eternity: While some dread presence, all the darkness filling, Crept round my heart, its healthy pulses chilling; Making the night, so awful unto me, More fearful with that word Eternity.

So that my spirit, trembling and afraid, Bowed down itself before its God, and prayed For His strong arm of terror to be stayed; And sighed Eternity From its white lips, as the dark sea, subsiding, Sank into broken murmurs; and the gliding Of the soothed waters seemed once more to me The whisper I first heard, Eternity.

But now I mocked not what the ripple said: I only reverently bent my head, While the pure stars, unveiled, their lustre shed Upon the peaceful sea— And the mild moon, with a majestic motion, Uprose, and shed upon the murmuring ocean, Her calm and radiant glory, as if she Knew it the symbol of Eternity.

HYMN.

Down through the dark, my God, Reach me Thy hand; Guide me along the road I fail to understand. Blindly I grope my way, In doubt and fear, Uncertain when I pray If Thou art near.

O, God, renew my trust, Hear when I cry; Out of the cloud and dust Lift me to thee on high. The crooked paths make plain, The burden light; Touch me and heal my pain, And clear my sight.

O, take my hand in Thine, And lead me so That all my steps incline In Thy right way to go. Out of this awful night Some whisper send, That I may feel my God, My loving friend.

O, let me feel and see Thy hand and face; And let me learn of Thee My true right place. For I am Thine, and Thou Art also mine. Unto Thy will I bow, Helper divine!

DO YOU HEAR THE WOMEN PRAYING?

[Read before the Women's Prayer League of Portland, Oregon, May 27, 1874.]

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers? Do you hear what words they say? These, this free-born nation's wives and mothers, Bowing, where you proudly stand, to pray! Can you coldly look upon their faces, Pale, sad faces, seamed with frequent tears; See their hands uplifted in their places— Hands that toiled for all your boyhood's years?

Can you see your wives and daughters pleading In the dust you spurn beneath your feet, Baring hearts for years in secret bleeding, To the scoffs and jestings of the street? Can you hear, and yet not heed the crying Of the children perishing for bread? Born in fear, not love, and daily dying, Cursed of God, they think, but cursed of you instead?

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers? Hear the oft-repeated burden of their prayer— Hear them asking for one boon above all others— Not for vengeance on the wrongs they have to bear; But imploring, as their Lord did, "God forgive them, For they know not what they do; Strike the sin, but spare the sinners—save them"— Meaning, oh ye men and brothers, you!

For your heels have ground the women's faces; You have coined their blood and tears for gold; Have betrayed their kisses and embraces— Returned their love with curses twentyfold; Made the wife's crown one of thorns and not of honor, Made her motherhood a pain and dread; Heaped life's toil unrecompensed upon her; Laid her sons upon her bosom, dead!

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers? Have you not one word to say? Will a just God be as gentle as these mothers, If you dare to say them nay? Oh, ye men, God waits for you to answer The prayers that to him rise, He waits to know if you are just ere He is— There your deliverance lies!

Rise and assert the manhood of this nation, Its courage, honor, might— Wipe off the dust of our humiliation— Dare nobly to do right! Shall women plead from out the dust forever? Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray? Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor, And seize the world's salvation while you may.

Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean, The sound of prayer is heard; And in our hearts great billows of emotion At every breath are stirred. From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valley The voice of women sounds the cry, "Come up!" O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally— Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup!

"OUR LIFE IS TWOFOLD."

Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie, On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dim And purple twilight, shut out from the sky, Which is too garish for my softer whim. And while I, looking inward on my thought, Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air. Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught, With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair: I shall see inly better if thou keep My outer senses in a charmed sleep.

Sweet friend!—I love that pleasant name of friend— We walk not ever singly, through the world; But even as our shadow doth attend Our going in the sunshine, and is furled About us in the darkness—so that shade Which haunts our other self, is faintly seen Beside us in our gladness, and is made To wrap us coldly life's bright hours between. Unconsciously we court it. In our youth, While yet our morning sky is pink with joy, We, curious if our happiness be truth, Try to discern the shadow of alloy. O, I remember well the earliest time A sorrow touched me, and I nursed it then; Tho' but few summers of our northern clime Had sunned my growth among the souls of men.

In an old wood, reputed for its age, And for its beauty wild and picturesque; The bound and goal of each day's pilgrimage, Where were all forms of graceful and grotesque; And countless hues, from the dark stately pine That whispered its wild mysteries to my ear, To the smooth silver of the birch-trees shine, Showing between the aspens straight and fair; With forest flowers, and delicate vines that crept From the rich soil far up among the trees, Seeking that light their boughs did intercept, And dalliance and caresses of the breeze. In midst of these, sheltered from sun and wind Glimmered a lake, in long and shining curves, Like a bright fillet that should serve to bind That scene to earth—if she the gem deserves! For gem it was, as proud upon her brow As jewels on the forehead of a queen; And one thought as one turned from it, of how Eve exiled, must have missed some just such scene. O, there I type my life! I used to sigh Sitting on this side, with my lap piled up With violets of the real sapphire dye, For the gay gold of the bright buttercup Spangling the green sod on the other side— For the lake's breadth was but an arrow's flight, And the brief distance did not serve to hide What yet could not be reached except by sight.

Day after day I dreamed there, while my heart Gathered up knowledge in its childish way, Making fine pictures with unconscious art, And learning beauty more and more each day. Ever and ever haunted I that spot— Sitting in dells scooped out between the hills, That rising close around me, formed a grot Fragrant with ferns, and musical with rills. Far up above me grew the long-armed beech, Dropping its branches down in graceful bent; While farther up, beyond my utmost reach, Stood dusky hemlocks, crowning the ascent. And all about were sweeter sights and sounds Than elsewhere, but in poet's dream, abounds.

Thus, and because my life was all too fair, I sought to color it with thoughts I nursed In sylvan solitudes: and in the air Of these soft, silent influences, I first Saw, or felt, rather, that the shadow fell Upon my pathway from the light behind— The light of youth's first joyousness. Ah, well, If it had stayed there, nor been more unkind! My earliest sorrow was a flower's death— At which I wept until my swollen eyes Refused to shed more tears—just that my wreath One morn in autumn lacked its choicest dyes. So, knowing what it was to have a loss, I went on losing, and the shadow grew Darker and longer, 'till it lies across My pathway to the measure of my view. We all remember sorrow's first impress— No matter whether we had cause to grieve, Or whether sad in very willfulness— The lesson is the same that we receive. And afterwards, when the great shadow falls— The tempest—when the lightning's flash reveals The darkness brooding o'er us, and appals Hope by the terror of the stroke it deals— Then, how the shadow hugs us in its fold! We see no light behind, and none to come; But dumbly shiver in the gloom and cold, Or with despair lie down, and wait our doom.

Sweet, press thy cheek upon my own again— Even now my life's dark ghost is haunting nigh: Sing me to sleep with some old favorite strain— Some gentle poet's loving lullaby; For I would dream, and in my dream forget Our twofold life is full of shadows set.

SOUVENIR.

You ask me, "Do you think of me?" Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river, Which pours itself into the sea, Yet empties its own channel never.

All other thoughts are like these sail Drifting the river's surface over; They veer about with every gale— The river keeps its course forever.

So deep and still, so strong and true, The current of my soul sets thee-ward, Thy river I, my ocean you, And all myself am running seaward.

I ONLY WISH TO KNOW.

Pray do not take the kiss again I risked so much in getting, Nor let my blushes make you vain To your and my regretting. I'm sure I've heard your sex repeat A thousand times or so, That stolen kisses are most sweet— I only wished to know!

I own 'twas not so neatly done As you know how to do it, And that the fright out-did the fun, But still I do not rue it. I can afford the extra beat My heart took at your "Oh!" Which plainly said that kiss was sweet— When I so wished to know!

Nay, I will not give back the kiss, Nor will I take a second; Creme de la creme of pain and bliss This one shall e'er be reckoned. The pain was mine, the bliss was—ours, You smile to hear it so; But the same thought was surely yours, As I have cause to know.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

The highest use of happy love is this; To make us loving to the loveless ones; Willing indeed to halve our meed of bliss, If our sweet plenty others' want atones: Of love's abundance may God give thee store, To spend in love's sweet charities, LENORE.

LOVE'S FOOTSTEPS.

I sang a song of olden times, Sitting upon our sacred hill— Sang it to feel my bosom thrill To the sweet pathos of its rhymes.

I trilled the music o'er and o'er, And happy, gazed upon the scene, Thinking that there had never been So blue a sea, so fair a shore.

A vague half dream was in my mind; I hardly saw how sat the sun; I noted not the day was gone The rosy western hills behind.

'Till, soft as if Apollo blew For me the sweet Thessalian flute, I heard a sound which made me mute, And more than singing thrilled me through.

THY STEP—well known and well beloved! No more I dreamed on shore or sea; I thought of, saw but only thee, Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved.

THE POET'S MINISTERS.

POET.

Oh, my soul! the draught is bitter Yet it must be sweetly drunken: Heart and soul! the grinding fetter Galls, yet have ye never shrunken: Heart and soul, and pining spirit, Fail me not! no coward weakness Such as ye are should inherit— Be ye strong even in your meekness.

Born were ye to these strange uses, To brief joy and crushing ill, To small good and great abuses; Yet oh, yield not, till they kill. The stag wounded runneth steady With his blood in streams a-gushing; Soul and spirit, be ye ready For the arrows toward ye rushing.

SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS.

Now what ails our gentle friend? In his eye a meaning double, Sorrow and defiance blend— Let us soothe him of his trouble. Poet! do not pass us by: See how we are robed to meet you; Heed you not our perfumed sigh? Heed you not how sweet we greet you? Ever since the breath of morn We have waited for your coming, Fearing when the bee's dull horn Round our quiet bower was humming: We have kept our sweets for thee— Poet, do not pass us by: Place us on thy breast, for see! By the sunset we must die.

SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.

Bathe thy pale face in the flood Which overflows this crystal fountain, Then to rouse thy sluggish blood, Seek its source far up the mountain. Note thou how the stream doth sing Its soft carol, low and light, To the jagged rocks that fling Mildew shadows, black and blight. Learn a lesson from the stream, Poet! though thy path may lie Hid forever from the gleam Of the blue and sunny sky,— Though thy way be steep and long, Sing thou still a cheerful song!

SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

Come sister spirits, touch his eyelids newly, With that rare juice whose magic power it is, To give the rose-hue to those things which truly Wear the sad livery of ugliness. Oh, dignify the office of the meanest Of all God's manifold created things; And sprinkle his heart's wounds with the serenest Waters of sweetness, from our fabled springs. Oh, close him round with visions of all rareness, Make him see everything with smiling eye; Let all his dreams be unsurpassed for fairness, And what we feign out-charm reality. Come, sister spirits, up and do your duty; When the Poet pines, feast his soul with beauty.

SPIRIT OF THE TREES.

Let us wave our branches gently With a murmur low and loving; He will say we sang him quaintly Some old ballad, sweetly moving. 'Tis of all the ways the surest To awake a poet's fancies, For he loves these things the purest— Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies. He has loved us, we will love him, And will cheer his hour of sadness, Spirits, wave your boughs above him To a measure of soft gladness.

SPIRIT OF LOVE.

Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well, But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth, And till I spell him with my magic spell, In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth. Behold I touch his heart, and there upspring Blooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes; His scornful lips upon the instant sing, And all his pulses leap with ecstasies. 'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot live Without caressing and without caress, Which all to charity his fellows give; But I will wrap his soul in tenderness, And straightway from his lips will burst a song All loving hearts shall echo and prolong.

POET.

O Earth, and Sky, and Flowers, and Streams agushing, God made ye beautiful to make us blest: O bright-winged Songsters through the blue air rushing; O murmuring Tree-tops, by the winds carest; O Waves of Ocean, Ripples of the River, O Dew and Fragrance, Sunlight, and Starbeam, O blessed summer-sounds that round me quiver, Delights impassable that round me teem— Oh all things beautiful! God made ye so That the glad hearts of men might overflow!

O Soul within me, whose wings sweep a lyre— God gave thee song that thou might'st give him praise; O Heart that glows with the Promethean fire, O Spirit whose fine chords some influence plays: O all sweet thoughts and beautiful emotions, O smiles and tears, and trembling and delight, Have ye not all part in the soul's devotions, To help it swell its anthem's happy height? Spirit of Love, of God, of inspiration, The poet's glad heart bursts in acclamation!

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

Ring every flower-bell on the wind, And let each insect louder sing; Let elfin "joy be unconfined;" And let the laughing fairies bring A wreath enchanted, and to bind Upon the Poet's worthy brow Heartsease and laurel, and a kind Of valley lily, white as snow; And fresh May-roses, branching long— Braid all these in a garland gay, To crown the Poet for his song, Sung in our haunts this summer day!

SUNSET AT THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA.

There sinks the sun; like cavalier of old, Servant of crafty Spain, He flaunts his banner, barred with blood and gold, Wide o'er the western main, A thousand spear heads glint beyond the trees In columns bright and long: While kindling fancy hears upon the breeze The swell and shout of song.

And yet, not here Spain's gay, adventurous host, Dipped sword or planted cross; The treasures guarded by this rock-bound coast, Counted them gain nor loss. The blue Columbia, sired by the eternal hills, And wedded with the sea; O'er golden sands, tithes from a thousand rills, Rolled in lone majesty—

Through deep ravine, through burning, barren plain, Through wild and rocky strait, Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain, Toward the sunset gate. While curious eyes, keen with the lust of gold, Caught not the informing gleam; These mighty breakers age on age have rolled To meet this mighty stream.

Age after age these noble hills have kept, The same majestic lines: Age after age the horizon's edge been swept By fringe of pointed pines. Summers and Winters circling came and went, Bringing no change of scene; Unresting, and unhasting, and unspent, Dwelt nature here serene.

Till God's own time to plant of Freedom's seed, In this selected soil; Denied forever unto blood and greed; But blest to honest toil. There sinks the sun. Gay Cavalier! no more His banners trail the sea, And all his legions shining on the shore Fade into mystery.

The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach, Like any starving thing; And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach, In vain clamoring. The shadows fall; just level with mine eye Sweet Hesper stands and shines, And shines beneath an arc of golden sky, Pinked round with pointed pines.

A noble scene! all breadth, deep tone and power, Suggesting glorious themes; Shaming the idler who would fill the hour With unsubstantial dreams. Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forth The things that yet shall be, When through this gate the treasures of the North Flow outward to the sea.

THE PASSING OF THE YEAR.

Worn and poor, The Old Year came to Eternity's door. Once, when his limbs were young and strong, From that shining portal came he forth, Led by the sound of shout and song, To the festive halls of jubilant earth;— Now, his allotted cycle o'er, He waited, spent, by the Golden Door.

Faint and far—faint and far, Surging up soft between sun and star, Strains of revelry smote his ear; Musical murmurs from lyre and lute— Rising in choruses grand and clear, Sinking in cadences almost mute— Vexing the ear of him who sate Wearied beside the Shining Gate.

Sad and low, Flowed in an undertone of woe: Wailing among the moons it came, Sobbing in echoes against the stars; Smothered behind some comet's flame, Lost in the wind of the war-like Mars, —Mingling, ever and anon, With the music's swell a sigh or moan.

"As in a glass, Let the earth once before me pass," The Old Year said; and space untold Vanished, till nothing came between; Folded away, crystal and gold, Nor azure air did intervene; "As in a glass" he saw the earth Decking a bier and waiting a birth.

"You crown me dead," the Old Year said, "Before my parting hour is sped: O fickle, false, and reckless world! Time to Eternity may not haste; Not till the last Hour's wing is furled Within the gate my reign is past! O Earth! O World! fair, false and vain, I grieve not at my closing reign."

Yet spirit-sore The dead king noted a palace door; He saw the gay crowd gather in; He scanned the face of each passer by; Snowiest soul, and heart of sin; Tried and untried humanity: Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain, Braided at chance in a motley skein.

"Ill betide Ye thankless ones!" the Old Year cried; "Have I not given you night and day, Over and over, score upon score, Wherein to live, and love, and pray, And suck the ripe world to its rotten core? Yet do you reek if my reign be done? E're I pass ye crown the newer one! At ball and rout ye dance and shout, Shutting men's cries of suffering out, That startle the white-tressed silences Musing beside the fount of light, In the eternal space, to press Their roses, each a nebula bright, More close to their lips serene, While ye wear this unconscious mein!"

"Even so." The revelers said: "We'll have naught of woe. Why should we mourn, who have our fill? Enough that the hungry wretches cry: We from our plenty cast at will Some crumbs to make their wet eyelids dry; But to the rich the world is fair— Why should we grovel in tears and prayer?"

In her innocent bliss, A fair bride said with sweet earnestness, "For the dead Year am I truly sad; Since in its happy and hopeful days, Every brief hour my heart was glad, And blessings were strewn in all my ways: Will it be so forevermore? Will the New Years bring of love new store?"

Youth and maid. Of their conscious blushes half afraid, Shunning each other's tell-tale eyes, Yet cherishing hopes too fond to own; Speed the Old Year with secret sighs; And smile that his time is overflown; Shall they not hear each other say "Dear Love!" ere the New Year's passed away?

"O, haste on! The year or the pleasure is dead that is gone!" Boasted the man of pomp and power; "That which we hold is alone the good; Give me new pleasures for every hour, And grieve over past joys ye who would— Joys that are fled are poor, I wis— Give me forever the newest bliss!"

"Wish me joy," Girl-Beauty cried, with glances coy: "In the New Year a woman I; I'll then have jewels in my hair, And such rare webs as Princes buy Be none too choice for me to wear: I'll queen it as a beauty should, And not be won before I'm wooed!"

"Poor and proud—poor and proud!" Sighed a student in the motley crowd— "I heard her whisper that aside: O fatal fairness, aping heaven When earthly most!—I'll not deride— God knows that were all good gifts given To me as lavishly as rain, I'd bring them to her feet again."

"Here are the fools we use for tools; Bending their passion, ere it cools, To any need," the cynic said: "Lo, I will give him gold, and he Shall sell me brain as it were bread! His very soul I'll hold in fee For baubles that shall buy the hand Of the coldest woman in the land!"

Spirit sore, The Old Year cared to see no more; While, as he turned, he heard a moan— Frosty and keen was the wintry night— Prone on the marble paving-stone, Unwatched, unwept, a piteous sight, Starved and dying a poor wretch lay; Through the blast he heard him gasping say:

"O, Old Year! From sightless eyes you force this tear; Sorrows you've heaped upon my head, Losses you've gathered to drive me wild, All that I lived for, loved, are dead,— Brother and sister, wife and child, I, too, am perishing as well; I shall share the toll of your passing bell!"

Grieved, and sad, For the sins and woes the Human had, The Old Year strove to avert his eyes; But fly or turn wherever he would, On his vexed ear smote the mingled cries Of revel and new-made widowhood— Of grief that would not be comforted With the loved and beautiful lying dead.

Evermore, every hour, Rising from hovel, hall and tower, Swelling the strain of discontent; Gurgled the hopeless prayer for alms, Rung out the wild oath impotent; Echoed by some brief walls of calms, Straining the listener's shrinking ears, Like silence when thunderbolts are near.

Across that calm, like gales of balm, Some low, sweet household voices came; Thrilling, like flute-notes straying out From land to sea, some stormy night, The ear that listens for the shout Of drowning boatmen lost to sight— And died away, again so soon The pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon.

Once pure and clear, Clarion strains fell on his ear: The preacher shook the soulless creeds, And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words, Yet failed to stir them to good deeds: Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds, Soared on the air and glanced away, Before the eloquent voice could stay.

"'Tis very sad the man is mad," The men and women gaily said; As they, laughing, thread their homeward road, Talking of other holidays; Of last year, how it rained or snowed; Who went abroad, who wed a blaze Of diamonds with his shoddy bride, On certain days—and who had died.

"Would I were dead, And vexed no more," the Old Year said: "In vain may the preacher pray and warn; The tinkling cymbals in your ears Turn every gracious word to scorn; Ye care not for the orphan's tears; Your sides are fed, and your bodies clad Is there anything heaven itself could add?"

And then he sighed, as one who died, With a great wish unsatisfied; Around him like a wintry sea, Whose waves were nations, surged the world, Stormy, unstable, constantly Upheaved to be again down-hurled; Here struggled some for freedom; here Oppression rode in the high career.

In hot debate Men struggled, while the hours waxed late; Contending with the watchful zeal Of gladiators, trained to die; Yet not for life, nor country's weal, But that their names might hang on high As men who loved themselves, indeed, And robbed the State to satisfy their need!

Heads of snow, and eyes aglow With fires that youth might blush to know; And brows whose youthful fairness shamed The desperate thoughts that strove within; While each his cause exulting named As purest that the world had seen: All names they had to tickle honest ears, Reform, and Rights, and sweet Philanthropy's cares.

"Well-a-day! Well-a-day!" The Old Year strove to put away Sight and sound of the reckless earth; But soft! from out a cottage door, Sweet strains of neither grief nor mirth, Upon his dying ear did pour; "Give us, O God," the singers said, "As good a year as this one dead!"

Pealing loud from sod to cloud, Earth's bell's rang out in a chorus proud; Great waves of music shook the air From organs pulsing with the sound; Hushed was the voice of sob and prayer, As time touched the eternal bound: To the dead monarch earth was dimmed, But the golden portals brighter beamed.

Sad no more, The Old Year reached the golden door, Just as the hours with crystal clang Aside the shining portals bent And murmuring 'mong the spheres there rang The chorus of earth's acknowledgment: One had passed out at the golden door, And one had gone in forevermore!

THE END.