And there we leave thee, in thy misty tent

Watching alone;

While foes about thee gather imminent,
To us scarce known.

Oh, when the lights are quenched, the music hushed, The plaudits still,

Heaven keep the fountain, whence the fair stream

gushed,

From choking ill!

Let Shakspeare's soul, that wins the world from wrong, For thee avail,

And not one holy maxim of his song

Before thee fail!

So get thee to thy couch as unreproved
As heroes blest;

And all good angels, trusted in and loved,
Attend thy rest!

IN MY VALLEY

FROM the hurried city fleeing,
From the dusty men and ways,
In my golden sheltered valley,
Count I yet some sunny days.

Golden, for the ripened Autumn
Kindles there its yellow blaze;
And the fiery sunshine haunts it

Like a ghost of summer days.

Walking where the running water Twines its silvery caprice,

Treading soft the leaf-spread carpet,

I encounter thoughts like these : --

"Keep but heart, and healthful courage,

Keep the ship against the sea,

Thou shalt pass the dangerous quicksands

That insnare Futurity;

Thou shalt live for song

and story,

For the service of the pen;

Shalt survive till children's children

Bring thee mother-joys again.

Thou hast many years to gather;
And these falling years shall bring
The benignant fruits of Autumn,
Answering to the hopes of Spring.

Passing where the shades that darkened

Grow transfigured to thy mind,

Thou shalt go with soul untroubled

To the mysteries behind;

Pass unmoved the silent portal

Where beatitude begins,

With an equal balance bearing

Thy misfortunes and thy sins."

Treading soft the leaf-spread carpet, Thus the Spirits talked with me; And I left my valley, musing

On their gracious prophecy.

To my fiery youth's ambition Such a boon were scarcely dear: "Thou shalt live to be a grandame,

Work and die, devoid of fear."

"Now, as utmost grace it steads me,

Add but this thereto," I said:

"On the Matron's time-worn mantle

Let the Poet's wreath be laid."

ENDEAVOR.

"WHAT hast thou for thy scattered seed, O Sower of the plain?

Where are the many gathered sheaves

Thy hope should bring again?"

"The only record of my work

Lies in the buried grain."

"O Conqueror of a thousand fields ! In dinted armor dight,

What growths of purple amaranth

66

Shall crown thy brow of might?"

'Only the blossom of my life

Flung widely in the fight."