ness, Heliotrope! Heliotrope! Give me back my strength's com- Must I pine and languish ever! Oh, Lethean Heliotrope? Ah, the night-wind, freshly blowing, I escape thy spells alive! Flower! I love and do not love thee! Hold my breath, but bend above thee; Crush thy buds, yet bid them ope; Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope! DAY-DREAMING. How better am I Here, as the noiseless hours go by, I cling to my fancy's half-blown flower: Over its sweetness I brood and brood, And scarcely stir, though sounds intrude That would trouble and fret another mood Less divine Than mine! The rolling mist came down and hid They rowed her in across the rolling OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? OH! why should the spirit of mortal | And alike from the minds of the liv be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fastflying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid; As the young and the old, the low and the high, Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie. ing erased Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised. The head of the king, that the sceptre hath borne; The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn; The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The infant, a mother attended and The beggar, who wandered in search loved, of his bread, The mother, that infant's affection | Have faded away like the grass that who proved, The father, that mother and infant who blest, Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest. we tread. So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed, That withers away to let others succeed; The maid, on whose brow, on whose So the multitude comes, even those we behold, Shone beauty and pleasure, her tri- To repeat every tale that has often cheek, in whose eye, INTO a ward of the whitewashed | Back from his beautiful, blue-veined walls, Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day Somebody's darling, so young, and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold, [brow; Kissing the snow of that fair young Pale are the lips of delicate mouldSomebody's darling is dying now. brow, Brush all the wandering waves of gold. Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody's darling is still and cold. Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take, They were somebody's pride, you know: Somebody's hand has rested there,Was it a mother's soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in those waves of light? UNDER THE LEAVES. OFT have I walked these woodland paths, Without the blest foreknowing That underneath the withered leaves The fairest buds were growing. To-day the south-wind sweeps away BY THE DEAD. SWEET winter roses, stainless as the snow, As was thy life, O tender heart and A cross of lilies that our tears bedew, Wrapt in the calm of Death's great with lips of Ours still to feel the pain, the unlanguaged woe, Outvying in your beauty "Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to say, "With love's divine foreknowing, That where man sees but withered leaves, God sees sweet flowers growing." The bitter sense of loss, the vague |