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Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

O.ver the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover

Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild

Decembers, From these brown hills, have melted

into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that

remembers [fering! After such years of change and self-

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I

forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me


Other desires and other hopes beset


Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,

No second morn has ever shone for me;

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, [there All my life's bliss is in the grave with

But, when the days of golden dreams

had perished, And even Despair was powerless to


Then did I learn how existence could

be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the

aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion —

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten [mine.

Down to that tomb already more than

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?

Maria Gowen Brooks.

IFroni Zopkiel.]

Day, in melting purple dying;
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;

Ye but waken my distress;

I am sick of loneliness!

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;
All I ask is friendship's pleasure;

Let the shining ore lie darkling, — Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; Gifts and gold are naught to me, I would only look on thee!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,

Ecstasy, but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,

Rapture in participation;

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!

Let these eyes again caress thee.

Once in caution, I could fly thee;

Now, I nothing could deny thee.
In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!


The bard has sung, God never formed a soul I meet

Without its own peculiar mate, to Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete! But thousand evil things there are that hate I impede,

To look on happiness; these hurt, And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate. Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed.

And as the dove to far Palmyra flying,

From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing,

Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream, — So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquatfed, Suffers, recoils,— then, thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.



Upon the white sea sand There sat a pilgrim band. Telling the losses that their lives had known; While evening waned away From breezy cliff and bay, And the strong tide went out with weary moan.

One spake, with quivering lip,

Of a fair freighted ship, With all his household to the deep gone down;

But one had wilder woe —

For a fair face, long ago [ town. Lost in the darker depths of a great

There were who mourned their youth

With a most loving truth, for its brave hopes and memories

ever green; . And one upon the west Turned an eye that would not


For far-off hills whereon its joy had been.


Some talked of vanished gold, Some of proud honors told, Some spake of friends that were their trust no more; And one of a green grave Beside a foreign wave, That made him sit so lonely on the shore.

But when their tales were done, There spake among them one, A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free:

"Sad losses have ye met, But mine is heavier yet; For a believing heart hath gone from me."

"Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead — For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross,

For the wrecks of land and sea!

But, howe'er it came to thee, Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."

Henry Howard Brownell.


Toll, tower and minster, toll
O'er the city's ebb and flow!

Roll, muffled drum, still roll
With solemn beat and slow! —

A brave and a splendid soul
Hath gone — where all shall go.

Dimmer, in gloom and dark,
Waned the taper, day by day,

And a nation watched the spark,
Till its fluttering died away.

Was its flame so strong and calm
Through the dismal years of ice

To die 'mid the orange and the palm
And the airs of Paradise?

Over that simple bier

While the haughty Spaniard bows, Grief may join in the generous tear,

And Vengeance forget her vows.

Ay. honor the wasted form
That a noble spirit wore —

Lightly it presses on the warm
Spring sod of its parent shore;

Hunger and darkness, cold and storm
Never shall harm it more.

No more of travel and toil,

Of tropical or arctic wild: Gently, O Mother Soil,

Take thy worn and wearied child.

Lay him — the tender and true —
To rest with such who are gone,

Each chief of the valiant crew
That died as our own hath done —

Let him rest with stout Sir Hugh,
Sir Humphrey, and good Sir John.

And let grief be far remote, As we march from the place of death,

To the blithest note of the fife's clear throat.

And the bugle's cheeriest breath.

Roll, stirring drum, still roll!

Not a sigh — not a sound of woe, That a grand and glorious soul

Hath gone where the brave must go.


Old friends and dear! it were ungentle rhyme, If I should question of your true hearts, whether [time, Ye have forgotten that far, pleasant The good old time when we were all together.

Our limbs were lusty and our souls sublime; We never heeded cold and winter weather, [time, Nor sun nor travel, in that cheery The brave old time when we were all together.

Pleasant it was to tread the mountain thyme,

Sweet was the pure and piny mountain ether, And pleasant all; but this was in the time,

The good old time when we were all together.

Since then I've strayed through many a fitful clime, (Tossed on the wind of fortune like a feather,) And chanced with rare good fellows in my time — But ne'er the time that we have known together.

But none like those brave hearts (for

now I climb Gray hills alone, or thread the

lonely heather,) That walked beside me in the ancient


The good old time when we were all together.

Long since, we parted in our careless prime,

Like summer birds no June shall hasten hither; No more to meet as in that merry time,

The sweet spring-time that shone on all together.

Some, to the fevered city's toil and grime,

And some o'er distant seas, and some — ah! whither? Nay, we shall never meet as in the time,

The dear old time when we were all together.

And some — above their heads, in

wind and rime, Year after year, the grasses wave

and wither; Aye, we shall meet! — 'tis but a little


Aml all shall lie with folded hands


And if, beyond the sphere of doubt and crime, Lie purer lands — ah! let our steps be thither; That, done with earthly change and earthly time, In Clod's good time we may be all together.


Do the dead carry their cares
Like us, to the place of rest?

The long, long night — is it theirs,
Weary to brain and breast?

Ah, that I knew how it fares
With One that I loved the best.

I lie alone in the house.
How the wretched North-wind

I listen, and think of those

O'er whose heads the wet grass waves — Do they hear the wind that blows,

And the rain on theirlonely graves?

Heads that I helped to lay
On the pillow that lasts for aye.

It is but a little way
To the dreary hill where they lie —

No bed but the cold, cold clay —
No roof but the stormy sky.

Cruel the thought and vain!

They've now nothing more to bear— Done with sickness and pain.

Done with trouble and care — But I hear the wind and the rain,

And still I think of them there.

Ah, couldst thou come to me,
Bird that I loved the best!

That I knew it was well with thee —
Wild and weary North-West!

Wail in chimney and tree —
Leave the dead to their rest.


Sweet Falsehoods, fare ye well! That may not longer dwell In this fond heart, dear paramours of Youth! A cold, unloving bride Is ever at my side — Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Truth?

Long hath she sought my side, And would not be denied, Till, all perforce, she won my spirit o'er —

And though her glances be But hard and stern to me. At every step I love her more and more.


A Sad old house by the sea.

Were we happy, I and thou, In the days that used to be?

There is nothing left me now

But to lie, and think of thee
With folded hands on my breast,

And list to the weary sea
Sobbing itself to rest.

Low a AGO.

When at eve I sit alone,
Thinking on the Past and Gone —
While the clock, with drowsy finger,
Marks how long the minutes lin-

And the embers, dimly burning,
Tell of Life to Dust returning —
Then my lonely chair around,
With a quiet, mournful sound,
With a murmur soft and low,
Come the ghosts of Long Ago.

One by one, I count them o'er,
Voices, that are heard no more,
Tears, that loving cheeks have wet,
Words,whose music lingers yet, —
Holy faces, pale and fair,
Shadowy locks of waving hair —
Happy sighs and whispers dear.
Songs forgotten many a year. —
Lips of dewy fragrance — eyes
Brighter, bluer than the skies —
Odors breathed from Paradise.

And the gentle shadows glide
Softly murmuring at my side,
Till the long unfriendly day.
All forgotten, fades away.

Thus, when I am all alone,
Dreaming o'er the Past and Gone,
All around me, sad and slow,
Come the ghosts of Long Ago.


Midnight in drear New England,
'Tis a driving storm of snow —

How the casement clicks and rattles,
And the wind keeps on to blowl

For a thousand leagues of coast-line, In fitful flurries and starts,

The wild North-Easter is knocking
At lonely windows and hearts.

Of a night like this, how many
Must sit by the hearth, like me,

Hearing the stormy weather.
And thinking of those at sea!

Of the hearts chilled through with watching, The eyes that wearily blink,

Through the blinding gale and snowdrift,

For the Lights of Navesink!

How fares it, my friend, with you ? —
If I've kept your reckoning aright,

The brave old ship must be due
On our dreary coast, to-night.

The fireside fades before me.
The chamber quiet and warm —

And I see the gleam of her lanterns
In the wild Atlantic storm.

Like a dream, 'tis all around me —
The gale, with its steady boom,

And the crest of every roller
Torn into mist and spume —

The sights and the sounds of Ocean
On a night of peril and gloom.

The shroud of snow and of spoondrift

Driving like mad a-lee —
And the huge black hulk that wallows
Deep in the trough of the sea.

The creak of cabin and bulkhead.
The wail of rigging and mast —

The roar of the shrouds as she rises
From a deep lee-roll to the blast.

The sullen throb of the engine,
Whose iron heart never tires —

The swarthy faces that redden
Uy the glare of his caverned fires.

The binnacle slowly swaying.
And nursing the faithful steel —

And the grizzled old quarter-master,
His horny hands on the wheel.

I can see it — the little cabin —
Plainly as if I were there —

The chart on the old green table,
The book and the empty chair.

On the deck we have trod together,
A patient and manly form,

To and fro, by the foremast,
Is pacing in sleet and storm.

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