"So shall the joys the Future holds in keeping

Augment your after peace; So shall your hopes, which now are only sleeping,

Return with large increase."

SOME THINGS LOVE ME.

ALL within and all without me

Feel a melancholy thrill; And the darkness hangs about me, Oh, how still!

To my feet, the river glideth

All nature hailed thee as a risen sun; Nor will thy setting blur her thankful eyes!

Like a barque

And the linden leans above me,

Till I think some things there be In this dreary world that love me, Even me!

Gentle buds are blooming near me,

Shedding sweetest breath around; Countless voices rise, to cheer me, From the ground;

And the lone bird comes-I hear it
In the tall and windy pine
Pour the sadness of its spirit
Into mine;

There it swings and sings above me,

Till I think some things there be In this dreary world that love me, Even me!

Now the moon hath floated to me, On the stream I see it sway, Swinging, boat-like, as 'twould woo

not be done,

These are the buccaneers that fright The middle sea with dream of

wrecks,

And freeze the south winds in their flight,

And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks.

At every dragon prow and helm

There stands some Viking as of

yore;

Grim heroes from the boreal realm Where Odin rules the spectral shore. And oft beneath the sun or moon Their swift and eager falchions glow

While, like a storm-vexed wind, the

rune

Comes chafing through some beard of snow.

And when the far north flashes up

With fires of mingled red and gold, They know that many a blazing cup Is brimming to the absent bold.

Up signal there, and let us hail

Yon looming phantom as we pass !— Note all her fashion, hull, and sail, Within the compass of your glass.

See at her mast the steadfast glow

Of that one star of Odin's throne; Up with our flag, and let us show The constellation on our own.

And speak her well; for she might

He sits amid his frozen crew
In council with the norland stars.

No answer-but the sullen flow
Of ocean heaving long and vast ;—
An argosy of ice and snow,
The voiceless North swings proudly
past.

CHRISTINE.

Supposed to be related by a young sculptor on the hill-side between Florence and Fiesole.

COME, my friend, and in the silence and the shadow wrapt apart, I will loose the golden claspings of this sacred tome-the heart.

By the bole of yonder cedar, under branches spread like eaves, We will sit where wavering sunshine weaves romance among the leaves.

There by gentle airs of story shall our dreamy minds be swayed, And our spirits hang vibrating like the sunshine with the shade.

Thou shalt sit, and, leaning o'er me, calmly look into my heart, Look as Fiesolé above us looketh on Val d'Arno's mart:

Shalt behold how Love's fair river down the golden city goes, As the silent stream of Arno through the streets of Florence flows.

I was standing o'er the marble, in the twilight falling gray, All my hopes and all my courage waning from me like the day:

There I leaned across the statue, heav

ing many a sigh and groan, For I deemed the world as heartless, ay, as heartless as the stone!

Nay, I wellnigh thought the marble was a portion of my pain, For it seemed a frozen sorrow just without my burning brain.

Then a cold and death-like stupor slowly crept along my frame, While my life seemed passing outward, like a pale reluctant flame.

And my weary soul went from me, and it walked the world alone, O'er a wide and brazen desert, in a hot and brazen zone;

There it walked and trailed its pinions, slowly trailed them in the sands, With its hopeless eyes fixed blindly,

with its hopeless folded hands.

And there came no morn,-no evening

with its gentle stars and moon, But the sun amid the heavens made a broad, unbroken noon.

And anon far reaching westward, with its weight of burning air, Lay an old and desolate ocean with a dead and glassy stare.

There my spirit wandered, gazing for

the goal no time might reach, With its weary feet unsandalled on the hard and heated beach.

This it is to feel uncared for, like a useless wayside stone,

She had praised my humble labors, the conception and the art,She had said a thing of beauty nestled ever to her heart.

And I thought one pleasant morning when our eyes together met, That her orbs in dewy splendor dropt beneath their fringe of jet.

Though her form and air were noble, yet a simple dress she wore, Like yon maiden by the cypress, which the vines are weeping o'er.

And she came all unattended,—her protection in her mien; And with somewhat of reluctance bade me call her name Christine.

Then that name became a music, and my dreams went to the time, And my brain all day made verses,

and her beauty filled the rhyme.

Never dreamed I that she loved me, but I felt it now the more; For her hand was laid upon me, and

her eyes were brimming o'er.

Oh, she looked into my spirit, as the stars look in the stream,