Dream-forger, I refill thy cup
TO C. F. BRADFORD

With reverie's wasteful pittance up,

And while the fire burns slow away, ON THE GIFT OF AMEERSCHAUM PIPE Hiding itself in ashes gray,

I'll think, As inward Youth retreats, The pipe came safe, and welcome too, Compelled to spare bis wasting heats, As anything must be from you;

When Life's Ash-Wednesday comes about, A meerschaum pnre, 't would float as light And my head 's gray with fires burnt out, As she the girls call Amphitrite.

While stays one spark to light the eye, Mixture divine of foam and clay,

With the last flash of memory, From both it stole the best away:

’T will leap to welcome C. F. B., Its foam is such as crowns the glow

Who sent my favorite pipe to me.
Of beakers brimmed by Veuve Clicquot;
Its clay is but congested lymph
Jove chose to make some choicer nymph;
And here combined, — why, this must be

BANKSIDE
The birth of some enchanted sea,
Shaped to immortal form, the type

(HOME OF EDMUND QUINCY) And very Venus of a pipe.

DBDHAM, May 21, 1877
When high I heap it with the weed
I

Edmund Quincy was eleven years the senior From Lethe wbarf, whose potent seed

of Lowell, but their common labors in the Nicotia, big from Bacchus, bore

early days of the anti-slavery movement, and And cast upon Virginia's shore,

their congeniality of temper and wit, made I'll think, So fill the fairer bowl

them very intimate friends. And wise alembic of thy soul, With herbs far-sought that shall distil, Not fumes to slacken thought and will, I CHRISTENED yon in happier days, before But bracing essences that nerve

These gray forebodings on my brow were To wait, to dare, to strive, to serve.

I

a

Sudden as falls a shooting-star he fell, Safe from the Many, honored by the Few; But inextinguishable his luminous trace To count as naught in World, or Church, In mind and heart of all that knew him

or State, well.

But inwardly in secret to be great; Happy mau's doom! To him the Fates To feel mysterious Nature ever new; were known

To touch, if not to grasp, her endless clue, Of orbs dim hovering on the skirts of And learn by each discovery how to wait. space,

He widened knowledge and escaped the Unprescient, through God's mercy, of his praise; own !

He wisely taught, because inore wise to

learn;

He toiled for Science, not to draw men's SONNET

gaze,

But for her lore of self-denial stern.
TO FANNY ALEXANDER

That such a man could spring from our

decays The daughter of an American portrait Fans the soul's nobler faitb until it burn. painter who spent his life in Italy, and herself known through her sympathetic and delicate portraiture of Italian peasant life, especially in her Roadside Songs of Tuscany. The poem

TO A FRIEND is dated at Florence in 1873.

WHO GAVE ME A GROUP OF WEEDS AND Unconscious as the sunshine, simply sweet GRASSES, AFTER A DRAWING OF DÜRER And generous as that, thou dost not close Thyself in art, as life were but a rose

TRUE as the sun's own work, but more To rumple bee-like with luxurious feet;

refined, Thy higher mind therein finds sure retreat,

It tells of love behind the artist's eye, But not from care of common hopes and Of sweet companionships with earth and woes;

sky, Thee the dark chamber, thee the unfriended, And summers stored, the sunshine of the knows,

mind. Although no babbling crowds thy praise What peace! Sure, ere you breathe, the repeat:

fickle wind Consummate artist, who life's landscape Will break its truce and bend that grassbleak

plume high, Hast brimmed with sun to many a clouded Scarcely yet quiet from the gilded fly eye,

That flits a more luxurious perch to find. Touched to a brighter hue the beggar's

Thanks for a pleasure that can never pall, cheek,

A serene moment, deftly caught and kept Hung over orphaned lives a gracious sky,

To make immortal summer on my wall. And traced for eyes, that else would vainly

Had be who drew such gladness ever seek, Fair pictures of an angel drawing nigh!

Ask rather could he else have seen at all,
Or grown in Nature's mysteries an adept?

wept?

a

2.

sue:

Shared its broad roof, 'neath whose green | Steeped in her sunshine, let me, while I glooms grown bold,

may, Lovers, more shy than they, their secret Partake the bounty: ample 't is for me told;

That her mirth cheats my temples of their The resurrection of a thousand springs

gray, Swelled in its veins, and dim imaginings

Her charm makes years long spent seem Teased them, perchance, of life more mani

yet to be. fold.

Wit, goodness, grace, swift flash from Such shall it know when its proud arms grave to gay, enclose

All these are good, but better far is she. My Lady Goshawk, musing here at rest, Careless of him who into exile goes, Yet, while his gift by those fair limbs is

BON VOYAGE prest, Through some fine sympathy of nature SHIP, blest to bear such freight across the knows

blue, That, seas between us, she is still his guest. May stormless stars control thy horoscope;

In keel and hull, in every spar and rope,

Be night and day to thy dear office true! Yet sometimes, let me dream, the con- Ocean, men's path and their divider too, scious wood

No fairer shrine of memory and hope A momentary vision may renew

To the underworld adown thy westering Of him who counts it treasure that he

slope knew,

E'er vanished, or whom such regrets purThough but in passing, such a priceless good,

Smooth all thy surges as when Jove to And, like an elder brother, felt his mood

Crete Uplifted by the spell that kept her true, Swam with less costly burthen, and preAmid her lightsone compeers, to the few

pare That wear the crown of serious woman- A pathway meet for her home - coming

hood: Were he so happy, think of him as one With golden undulations such as greet Who in the Louvre or Pitti feels his soul The printless summer-sandals of the moon Rapt by some dead face which, till then And tempt the Nautilus his cruise to dare !

unseen, Moves like a memory, and, till life outrun, Is vexed with vague misgiving past con

TO WHITTIER trol, Of nameless loss and thwarted might-have- ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY been.

NEW ENGLAND's poet, rich in love as

years, E. G. DE R.

Her hills and valleys praise thee, her swift

brooks Why should I seek her spell to decompose Dance in thy verse; to her grave sylvan Or to its source each rill of influence trace

nooks That feeds the brimming river of her Thy steps allure us, which the wood-thrush

hears The petals numbered but degrade to prose As maids their lovers', and no treason Summer's triumphant poem of the rose:

fears; Enough for me to watch the wavering Through thee her Merrimacs and Agio chase,

chooks Like wind o'er grass, of moods across her And many a name uncouth win gracious face,

looks, Fairest in motion, fairer in repose.

Sweetly familiar to both Englands' ears:

soon

grace ?

Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake,
The lily's anchorage, which no eyes behold
Save those of stars, yet for thy brother's

sake
That lay in bonds, thou blewst a blast as

bold As that wherewith the heart of Roland

brake, Far heard across the New World and the

Old.

Purged by Art's absolution from the stain
Of the polluting city-flood, regain
Ideal grace secure from taint of time.
An Attic frieze you give, a pictured song;
For as with words the poet paints, for

you
The happy pencil at its labor sings,
Stealing his privilege, nor does him wrong,
Beneath the false discovering the true,
And Beauty's best in unregarded things.

ON AN

AUTUMN SKETCH OF
H. G. WILD

WITH A COPY OF AUCASSIN

AND NICOLETE

THANKS to the artist, ever on my wall LEAVES fit to bave been poor Juliet's
The sunset stays: that hill in glory rolled, cradle-rhyme,
Those trees and clouds in crimson and in With gladness of a heart long quenched in
gold,

mould Burn on, nor cool when evening's shadows They vibrate still, a nest not yet grown fall.

cold Not round these splendors Midnight wraps From its fledged burthen. The numb her pall;

band of Time These leaves the flush of Autumn's vintage Vainly his glass turns; here is endless hold

prime; In Winter's spite, nor can the Northwind Here lips their roses keep and locks their bold

gold; Deface my chapel's western window small: Here Love in pristine innocency bold On one, ah me! October struck his frost, Speaks what our grosser conscience makes But not repaid him with those Tyrian

a crime. hues;

Because it tells the dream that all have His naked boughs but tell him what is lost,

known And parting comforts of the sun refuse: Once in their lives, and to life's end the His heaven is bare, – ah, were its hollow

few; crost

Because its seeds o'er Memory's desert Even with a cloud whose light were yet to

blown lose !

Spring up in heartsease such as Eden

knew;

Because it hath a beauty all its own,
TO MISS D. T.

Dear Friend, I plucked this herb of grace

for you.