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Who sees a brother in the evildoer,

And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his song;—

This, this is he for whom the world is waiting

Tosing the beatings ofits mighty heart, Too long hath it been patient with the grating

Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnained Art.

To him the smiling soul of man shall listen

Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside,

And once again in every eye shall glisten
The glory of a nature satisfied.
His verse shall have a great command-
ing motion,

Heaving and swelling with a melody Learntofthesky, the river, and the ocean And all the pure, majestic things that be.

Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence

To make us feel the soul once more sublime,

We are of far too infinite an essence Torestcontented with the lies of Time

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One half the cold she had not felt Until she saw this gush of light Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt Its slow way through the deadening night.

She hears a woman's voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew,

And years of misery and sin

Furl off, and leave her heaven blue.

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks Outwearied in the drifting snow, Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks No longer of its hopeless woe:

Old fields, and clear blue summer days, Old meadows, green with grass and

trees,

That shimmer through the trembling

haze

And whiten in the western breeze,

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Then, God, take me! We shall be

near,

More near than ever, each to each : Her angel ears will find more clear My heavenly than my earthly speech; And still, as I draw nigh to thee, Her soul and mine shall closer be.

1841.

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly

earn

A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs,

A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son ! there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands,
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to be,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

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Hate and scorn and hunger follow
Him that toileth for his kind."
Forth into the night he hurled it,
And with bitter smile did mark
How the surly tempest whirled it
Swift into the hungry dark.
Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward
Through the breakers all alone.

II.

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,
Musing by the wave-beat strand,
Half in hope and half in sorrow,
Tracing words upon the sand:
"Shall I ever then behold him

Who hath been my life so long, -
Ever to this sick heart fold him,
Be the spirit of his song?
Touch not, sea, the blessed letters

I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters

Mine with love forevermore ! Swells the tide and overflows it,

But, with omen pure and meetBrings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken

With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely

Peace shall also be thine own For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.'

III.

In his tower sits the poet,

Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it

With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder

Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder. Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind,

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