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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.
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.
A heritage, it seems to me,
A patience learned of being poor,
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;
THE ROSE: A BALLAD.
Whai 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, Conterit that from employment
springs, A heart that in his labor sings ;
In his tower sat the poet
Gazing on the roaring sea, “Take this rose,” he sighed, and
throw it Where there's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth
And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease. Take, O sea ! the tender blossom
That hath lain against my breast;
It will find a surer rest.
Ugly death stands there behind,
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.
Strength and wisdom only flower
When we toil for all our kud. Hope is truth, — the future giveth
More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth
Nearer God from day to day.” Not a word the maiden uttered,
Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek.
A LEGEND OF BRITTANY.
Stands a maiden, on the morrow,
Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow,
Tracing words upon the sand : “Shail I ever then behold him
Who hath been my life so long,
Be the spirit of his song ?
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 meeta Brings 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 surelv
Peace shall also be thine own For the heart that trusteth purely
Never long can pine alone.”
FAIR as a summer dream was Mar.
garet, Such dream as in a poet's soul might
start, Musing of old loves while the moon
doth set : Her hair was not more sunny than
her heart, Though like a natural golden coronet It circled her dear head with careless
art, Mocking the sunshine, that would fain
have lent To its frank grace a richer ornament.
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 boldei.
Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. “Life is joy, and love is power,
Death all fetters doth unbind,
II. His loved one's eyes could poet ever
speak, So kind, so dewy, and so deep were
hers, But, while he strives, the choicest
phrase, too weak, Their glad reflection in his spirit
blurs; As one may see a dream dissolve and
break Out of his grasp when he to tell it
stirs, Like that sad Dryad doomed ro more
to bless The moital who revealed ber lovelia
VI. O, what a face was hers to brighten
light, And give back sunshine with an
Full many a sweet forewarning hath
the mind, Full many a whispering of vague de
sire, Ere comes the nature destined to unbind Its virgin zone, and all its deeps in
spire, Low stirrings in the leaves, before the
XXII. The wooded hills sloped upward all
around With gradual rise, and made an even
rim, So that it seemed a mighty casque un
bound From some huge Titan's brow to
lighten him, Ages ago, and left upon the ground, Where the slow soil had mossed it to
the brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide
XIX. Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him
for a space From his own thraldom; man could
never be Ahypocrite when first such maiden grace
Smiled in upon his heart; the agony