How often, O, how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide?

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD.

GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws;

Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken!

Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's

Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers

Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints.

What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints:

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains? Ah! 'tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge

Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements,

Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions

Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too,

Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash!

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple

Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the

odourous breath of their branches

F