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When hearts, whose truth was proven,

Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,

Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine;

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.

Francis Bret Harte.


Sauntering hither on listless wings,

Careless vagabond of the sea, Litt le thou heedest the surf that sings, The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,— Give me to keep thy company.

Little thou hast, old friend, that's new;

Storms and wrecks are old things

to thee;

Sick am I of these changes too;
Little to care for, little to rue,—
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

All of thy wanderings, far and near,
Bring thee at last to shore and me;
All of my journeyings end them here,
This our tether must be our cheer,—
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, Something in common, old frend, have we;

Thou on the shingle seekest thy nest, 1 to the waters look for rest,— I on the shore, and thou on the sea.


This is that hill of awe
That Persian Sindbad saw,—

The mount magnetic;
And on its seaward face,
Scattered along its base,

The wrecks prophetic.

Here come the argosies
Blown by each idle breeze,

To and fro shifting;
Yet to the hill of Fate
All drawing, soon or late,—

Day by day drifting, —

Drifting forever here
Barks that for many a year

Braved wind and weather;
Shallops but yesterday
Launched on yon shining bay,—

Drawn all together.

This is the end of all:
Sun thyself by the wall,

O poorer Hindbad!
Envy not Sindbad's fame:
Here come alike the same,

Hindbad and Sindbad.



The skies are blue above my head,

The prairie green below, And flickering o'er the tufted grass

The shifting shadows go, Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds

Fleck white the tranquil skies, Black javelins darting where aloft The whirling pheasant flies.

A glimmering plain in drowsy trance

The dim horizon bounds, Where all the air is resonant

With sleepy summer sounds, The life that sings among the flowers,

The lisping of the breeze, The hot cicala's sultry cry.

The murmurous dreamy bees.

The butterfly, — a flying flower—

Wheels swift in flashing rings, And flutters round his quiet km,

With brave flame-mottled wings. The wild pinks burst in crimson fire,

The phlox' bright clusters shine, And prairie-cups are swinging free

To spill their airy wine.

And lavishly beneath the sun,

In liberal splendor rolled,
The fennel fills the dipping plain

With floods of flowery gold:
And widely weaves the iron-weed

A woof of purple dyes Where Autumn's royal feet may tread

When bankrupt Summer flies

In verdurous tumult far away

The prairie-billows gleam,
Upon their crests in blessing rests

The noontide's gracious beam, law quivering vapors steaming dim,

The level splendors break Where languid lilies deck the rim

Of some land-circled lake.

Far in the East like low-hung clouds The waving woodlands lie;


Far in the West the glowing plain Melts warmly in the sky.

No accent wounds the reverent air,
No footprint dints the sod, —

Low in the light the prairie lies
Rapt in a dream of God.


In the dewy depths of the graveyard

I lie in the tangled grass, And watch in the sea of azure,

The white cloud-islands pass.

The birds in the rustling branches

Sing gaily overhead;
Gray stones like sentinel spectres

Are guarding the silent dead.

The early flowers sleep shaded
In the cool green noonday glooms;

The broken light falls shuddering
On the cold white face of the tombs.

Without, the world is smiling
In the infinite love of God,

But the sunlight fails and falters When it falls on the churchyard sod.

On me the joyous rapture
Of a heart's first love is shed,

But it falls on my heart as coldly
As sunlight on the dead.


Sad is the thought of sunniest days

Of love and rapture perished, And shine through memory's tearful haze

The eyes once fondliest cherished.
Reproachful is the ghost of toys
That charmed while life was

But saddest is the thought of joys
That never yet were tasted.

Sad is the vague and tender dream

Of dead love's lingering kisses, To crushed hearts haloed by the gleam Of unreturning blisses; Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride

For the pitiless death that won them, —

But the saddest wail is for lips that


With the virgin dew upon them.


O Grandly flowing river!

O silver-gliding River!

Thy springing willows shiver

In the sunset as of old; They shiver in the silence Of the willow-whitened islands, While the sun-bars and the sand-bars

Fill air and wave with gold.

O gay, oblivious River!
O sunset-kindled River!
Do you remember ever

The eyes and skies so blue
On a summer day that shone here,
When we were all alone here,
And the blue eyes were too wise

To speak the love they knew?

O stern impassive River!
O still unanswering River!
The shivering willows quiver

As the night-winds moan and rave.
From the past a voice is calling,
From heaven a star is falling,
And dew swells in the bluebells

Above her hillside grave.


A Sentinel angel sitting high in glory

Heard this shrill wail ring out from

Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my


"I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I fell.

Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell.

For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against his high decree,

Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be:

But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again

And comfort him one hour, and I

were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and


Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent

That wild vow! Look, the dial finger's bent

Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!

I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.

O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upward, joyous, like a rising star,

She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,

And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,

She fluttered back, with brokenhearted walling.

She sobbed, "I found him by the

summer see reclined, his head upon a maiden's

knee, —

She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept. "Now let my punishment begin!

I have been fond and foolish. Let me in

To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul,

go higher! To be deceived in your true heart's


Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"


God send me tears! Mose the fierce band that binds my

tired brain, Give me the melting heart of other


And let me weep again!

Before me pass The shapes of things inexorably true. Gone is the sparkle of transforming dew

From every blade of grass.

In life's high noon Aimless I stand, my promised task undone,

And raise my hot eyes to the angry sun

That will go down too soon.

Turned into gall Are the sweet joys of childhood's

Sunny reign; And memory is a torture, love a


That binds my life in thrall.

And childhood's pain Could to me now the purest rapture yield;

I pray for tears as in his parching field

The husbandman for rain.

We pray in vain! The sullen sky flings down its blaze of brass;

The joys of life all scorched and withering pass; I shall not weep again.

Paul Hamilton Hayne.


Ah me! for evermore, for evermore These human hearts of ours must yearn and sigh, While down the dells and up the murmurous shore Nature renews her immortality.

The heavens of June stretch calm and bland above, June roses blush with tints of orient skies,

But we, by graves of joy, desire, and love,

Mourn in a world which breathes of Paradise!

The sunshine mocks the tears it may not dry,

The breezes — tricksy couriers of the air,—

Child-roisterers winged, and lightly fluttering by — Blow their gay trumpets in the face of care;

And bolder winds, the deep sky's passionate speech, Woven into rhythmic raptures of desire,

Or fugues of mystic victory, sadly reach

Our humbled souls, to rack, not raise them higher!

The field-birds seem to twit us as they pass

With their small blisses, piped so clear and loud; The cricket triumphs o'er us in the grass,

And the lark, glancing beamlike up the cloud,

Sings us to scorn with his keen rhapsodies:

Small things and great unconscious tauntiugs bring To edge our cares, while we, the proud and wise, Envy the insect's joy, the birdling's wing!

And thus for evermore, till time shall cease,

Man's soul and Nature's — each a separate sphere — Revolves, the one in discord, one in peace,

And who shall make the solemn mystery clear?



Fair as the dawn of the fairest day,
Sad as the evening's tender gray,
By the latest lustre of sunset kissed,
That wavers and wanes through an

amber mist,— There cometh a dream of the past to


On the desert sands, by the autumn sea.

All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil,

And the face of the ocean is dim and pale,

And there rises a wind from the chill

northwest, That seemeth the wail of a soul's


As the twilight falls, and the vapors flee

Far over the wastes of the autumn sea.

A single ship through the gloaming glides

Upborne on the swell of the seaward


And above the gleam of her topmost spar

Are the virgin eyes of the vesper star That shine with an angel's ruth on me, —

A hopeless wait, by the autumn sea.

The wings of the ghostly beach-birds gleam

Through the shimmering surf, and

the curlew's scream Falls faintly shrill from the darkening


The first weird sigh on the lips of Night

Breathes low through the sedge and the blasted tree,

With a murmur of doom, by the autumn sea.

Oh, sky-enshadowed and yearning main,

Your gloom but deepens this human pain;

Those waves seem big with a nameless care,

That sky is a type of the heart's despair,

As I linger and muse by the sombre lea,

And the night-shades close on the autumn sea.


You woodland, like a human mind. Has many a phase of dark and light;

Now dim with shadows wandering blind,

Now radiant with fair shapes of light;

They softly come, they softly go,

Capricious as the vagrant wind, — Nature's vague thoughts in gloom or glow,

That leave no airiest trace behind.

No trace, no trace; yet wherefore thus

Do shade and beam our spirits stir?

Ah! Nature may be cold to us,
But we are strangely moved by her!

The wild bird's strain, the breezy spray,

Each hour with sure earth-changes rife,

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