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THE HELIOTROPE.

Somewhere 'tis told that in an Eastern land,

Clasped in the dull palm of a mummy's hand,

A few light seeds were found; with wondering eyes

And words of awe was lifted up the prize.

And much they marvelled what could

be so dear Of herb or flower as to be treasured

here;

What sacred vow had made the dying keep

So close this token for his last, long sleep.

None ever knew, but in the fresh, warm earth

The cherished seeds sprang to a second birth,

Charles

THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS.

A Little child, beneath a tree,
Sat and chanted cheerily
A little song, a pleasant song,
Which was, — she sang it all day
long, —

"When the wind blows the blossoms fall,

But a good God reigns over all!"

There passed a lady by the way,
Moaning in the face of day:
There were tears upon her cheek,
Grief in her heart too great to speak;
Her husband died but yester-morn,
And left her in the world forlorn.

She stopped and listened to the child. That look'd to Heaven, and, singing, smiled;

And saw not, for her own despair, Another lady, young and fair, Who, also passing, stopped to hear The infant's anthem ringing clear.

And, eloquent once more with love and hope,

Burst into bloom the purple heliotrope,

Embalmed perhaps with sorrow's

fiery tears, Out of the silence of a thousand

years

It answered back the passion of the past

With the pure breath of perfect peace at last.

O pulseless heart! as ages pass, sleep well!

The purple flower thy secret will not tell,

But only to our eager quest reply — "Love, memory, hope, like me can never die!"

MACKAY.

For she, but few sad days before,
Had lost the little babe she bore;
And grief was heavy at her soul,
As that sweet memory o'er her stole,
And showed how bright had been the
past,

The present drear and overcast.

And as they stood beneath the tree,
Listening, soothed, and placidly,
A youth came by, whose sunken eyes,
Spake of a load of miseries;
And he, arrested like the twain,
Stopped to listen to the strain.

Death had bowed the youthful head
Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed:
Her marriage robes were fitted on.
Her fair young face with blushes
shone,

When the Destroyer smote her low, And left the lover to his woe.

And these three listened to the song Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, Which that child, the livelong day, Chanted to itself in play: "When the wind blows, the blossoms fall,

But a good God reigns over all."

The widow's lips impulsive moved; The mother's grief, though unreproved,

Softened, as her trembling tongue
Repeated what the infant sung;
And the sad lover, with a s
canned it over to his heart.

And though the child — if child it were,

And not a seraph sitting there — Was seen no more, the sorrowing three

Went on their way resignedly,

The song still ringing in their ears —

Was it music of the spheres?

Who shall tell? They did not know. But in the midst of deepest woe The strain recurred when sorrow grew, To warn them, and console them too: "When the wind blows, the blossoms fall.

But a good God reigns over all."

CLEON AND 1.

Ci.eon hath ten thousand acres,

Ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace,

In a cottage. 1;
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,

Not a penny, I;
Yet the poorer of the twain is

Cleon, and not I.

Cleon. true, possesseth acres,

But the landscape, I; Half the charms to me it yieldeth

Money cannot buy;
Cleon harbors sloth and dulness,

Freshening vigor, I;
He in velvet, 1 in fustian —

richer man am I,

Cleon is a slave to grandeur,

Free as thought am I; Cleon fees a score of doctors,

Need of none have I; Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,

Cleon fears to die; Death may come—he'll find me ready,

happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charms in Nature,

In a daisy, I;
Cleon hears no anthems ringing

'Twixt the sea and sky;
Nature sings to me forever,

Earnest listener, I; State for state, with all attendants —

Who would change ? — Not I.

CLE AR THE WAY!

Men of thought! be up and stirring,

Night and day: Sow the seed — withdraw the curtain—

Clear the way! Men of action, aid and cheer them,

As ye may! There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing

Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way!

Once the welcome light has broken,

Who shall say What the unimagined glories

Of the day?
What the evil that shall perish

In its ray?
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, hopes of honest men;
Aid it, paper — aid it, type —
Aid it, for the hour is ripe,
And our earnest must not slacken

Into play.
Men of thought and men of action,

Clear the way!

Lo! a cloud's about to vanish

From the day; And a brazen wrong to crumble

Into clay.
Lo! the rights about to conquer,

Clear the way!
With the Right, shall many more
Enter, smiling, at the door;
With the giant Wrong, shall fall
Many others, great and small,
That for ages long have held us

For their prey.
Men of thought and men of action,

Clear the way!

THE GOOD TIME COMING.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray

Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,

But thought's a weapon stronger; We'll win our battle by its aid; —

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming: The pen shall supersede the sword, And Right, not Might, shall be the lord

In the good time coming. Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,

And be acknowledged stronger; The proper impulse has been given; — Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
War, in all men's eyes, shall be
A monster of iniquity

In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then,

To prove which is the stronger; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake; —

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed

In the good time coming. Religion shall be shorn of pride,

And flourish all the stronger; And Charity shall trim her lamp; —

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming: And a poor man's family shall not be his misery

In the good time coming. Every child shall be a help,

To make his right arm stronger; The happier he, the more he has; —

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
Little children shall not toil,
Under or above the soil,

In the good time coming;
But shall play in healthful fields

Till limbs and mind grow stronger; And every one shall read and write; —

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate,

In the good time coming.
They shall use. and not abuse,

And make all virtue stronger. The reformation has begun;

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming: Let us aid it all we can. Every woman, every man,

The good time coming. Smallest helps, if rightly given,

Make the impulse stronger; 'Twill be strong enough one day; —

Walt a little longer.

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW.

Late or early, home returning,
In the starlight or the rain,
I beheld that lonely candle
Shining from his window-pane.

Ever o'er his tattered curtain,

Nightly looking, I could scan,

Aye inditing.

Writing — writing,

The pale figure of a man;

Still discern behind him fall

The same shadow on the wall.

Far beyond the murky midnight,
By dim burning of my oil,
Filling aye his rapid leaflets,
I have watched him at his toil;
Watched his broad and seamy fore-
head.

Watched his white industrious hand,
Ever passing
And repassing;

Watched and strove to understand
What impelled it — gold, or fame —
bread, or bubble of a name.

Oft I've asked, debating vainly

In the silence of my mind.

What the services he rendered

To his country or his kind;

Whether tones of ancient music,

Or the sound of moder n gong,

Wisdom holy,

Humors lowly,

Sermon, essay, novel, song,

Or philosophy sublime,

Fill d the measure of his time.

No one sought him, no one knew him.

Undistinguished was his name:
Never had his praise been uttered
By the oracles of fame.
Scanty fare and decent raiment,
Humble lodging, and a fire
These he sought for.
These he wrought for,
And he gained his meek desire;
Teaching men by written word —
Clinging to a hope deferred.

So he lived. At last I missed him;
Still might evening twilight fall,
But no taper lit his lattice —
Lay no shadow on his wall.
In the winter of his seasons,
In the midnight of his day,
'Mid his writing,
And inditing,

Death hath beckoned him away.
Ere the sentence he had planned
Found completion at his hand.

But this man so old and nameless
Left behind him projects large,
schemes of progress undeveloped,
Worthy of a nation's charge;
Noble fancies uncompleted,
Germs of beauty immatured,
Only needing
Kindly feeding

To have flourished and endured;
Meet reward in golden store
To have lived for evermore.

Who shall tell what schemes majestic
Perish in the active brain 1
What humanity is robbed of,
Ne'er to be restored again?
What we lose, because we honor
overmuch the mighty dead,
And dispirit
Living merit,

Heaping scorn upon its head?
Or perchance, when kinder grown,
Leaving it to die — alone?

O YE TEARS!

0 VE tears! O ye tears! that have long

refused to flow, Ye are welcome to my heart — thawing, thawing, like the snow;

I feel the hard clod soften, and the

early snowdrops spring, And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears ! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run:

Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun.

The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall.

And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

0 ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you

on my cheek.

I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stub

born, I was weak.

Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,

And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me

of my pain; The barren rock of pride has been

stricken once again:
Like the rock that Moses smote, amid

Horeb's burning sand,
It yields the flowing water to make

gladness in the land.

There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,

And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart;

Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago —

0 ye tears! happy tears! lam thankful that ye flow!

A QUESTION ANSWERED.

What to do to make thy fame
Live beyond thee in the tomb?

And thine honorable name

Shine, a star, through history's
gloom?

Seize the Spirit of thy Time,
Take the measure of his height,

Look into his eyes sublime,

And imbue thee with their light.

Know his words ere they are spoken,
And with utterance loud and clear,

Firm, persuasive, and unbroken,
Breathe them in the people's ear.

Think whate'er the Spirit thinks,
Feel thyself whate'er he feels.

Drink at fountains where he drinks,
And reveal what he reveals.

And whate'er thy medium be,
Canvas, stone, or printed sheet,

Fiction, or philosophy,
Or a ballad for the street; —

Or. perchance, with passion fraught,
Spoken words, like lightnings
thrown,

Tell the people all thy thought,
And the world shall be thine own!

EXTRACT FROM "'A REVERIE IN
THE GRASS."

Oh, beautiful green grass! Earth-
covering fair!
What shall be sungof thee, nor bright,
nor rare,

Nor highly thought of 1 Long green

grass that waves By the wayside, over the ancient

graves.

Or shoulders of the mountain looming high, [csty, Or skulls of rocks, bald in their inajExcept for thee, that in the crevices Liv'st on the nurture of the sun and breeze;

Adorner of the nude rude breast of hills,

Mantle of meadows, fringe of gushing rills,

Humblest of all the humble, thou

shalt be, If to none else, exalted unto me, And for a time, a type of joy on earth —

Joy unobtrusive, of perennial birth.
Common as light and air, and warmth
and rain,

And all the daily blessings that in vain
Woo us to gratitude: the earliest born
Of all the juicy verdures that adorn
The fruitful bosom of the kindly soil:
Pleasant to eyes that ache and limbs
that toil.

Lo! as I muse, I see the bristling
spears

Of thy seed-bearing stalks, which
some, thy peers, [fro
Lift o'er their fellows, nodding to and
Their lofty foreheads as the wild

winds blow,
And think thy swarming multitudes
a host,

Drawn up embattled on their native coast,

And officered for war:—the spearmen free

Raising their weapons, and the martial bee

Blowing his clarion, while some poppy tall

Displavs the blood-red banner over all.

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