My wakened heart for utterance ⚫ yearned

The clamorous wind had broke the spell

I needs must teach what I had learned Within my simple woodland cell.

AN INVITATION. INSCRIBED ID GEORGE HAMMERSLEY.

CamEtho, my friend ;-the cool autumnal eves

About the hearth have drawn their magic rings;

There, while his song of peace the cricket weaves,

The simmering hickory sings.

The winds unkennelled round the casements whine,

The sheltered hound makes answer in his dream,

And when the mill-wheel spiked with ice is dumb

Within the neighboring stream:

Then come, for nights like these have power to wake

The calm delight no others may impart,

When round the fire true souls communing make

A summer in the heart.

And I will weave athwart the mystic gloom,

With hand grown weird in strange romance, for thee,

Bright webs of fancy from the golden loom

Of charméd Poesy.

And let no censure in thy looks be shown,

That I, with hands adventurous and bold,

nine,

which was thrown Through mightier warps of old.

A SONG..

BRING me the juice of the honey fruit, The large, translucent, amber-hued,

DEAR transient spirit of the fields,
Thou com'st without distrust,"
To fan the sunshine of our streets
Among the noise and dust..

Thou leadest in thy wavering flight
My footsteps unaware,
Until I seem to walk the vales'
And breathe thy native air.

And thou hast fed upon the flowers,
And drained their honeyed springs,
Till every tender hue they wore.
Is blooming on thy wings.

I bless the fresh and flowery light
Thou bringest to the town,
But tremble lest the hot turmoil

Have power to weigh thee down;

For thou art like the poet's song,
Arrayed in holiest dyes,
Though it hath drained the honeyed
wells

Of flowers of Paradise,

Though it hath brought celestial hues To light the ways of life,

The dust shall weigh its pinions down Amid the noisy strife.

And yet, perchance, some kindred soul

May see its glory shine, And feel its wings within his heart As bright as I do thine.

THE WAY-SIDE SPRING.

FAIR dweller by the dusty way,
Bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day
Weary and worn is thine!

The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweet-brier and the violet,
The pious hand of Spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given

The homage of the pilgrim's kneeBut oft the sweetest birds of heaven Glide down and sing to thee.