Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
The cold dark hours, how slow the light;
And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
They pass, and heed each other not.
There is who heeds, who holds them all
In His large love and boundless thought.
These struggling tides of life, that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.

THE WANING MOON.

I'VE watch'd too late; the morn is near;
One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die!

Ev'n while your glow is on the cheek,
And scarce the high pursuit begun,
The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak,
The task of life is left undone.

See where upon the horizon's brim,
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars;
The waning moon, all pale and dim,
Goes up amid the eternal stars.

Late, in a flood of tender light,
She floated through the ethereal blue,
A softer sun, that shone all night
Upon the gathering beads of dew.

And still thou wanèst, pallid moon!

The encroaching shadow grows apace; Heaven's everlasting watchers soon

Shall see thee blotted from thy place.

D

Oh, Night's dethroned and crownless queen!
Well may thy sad, expiring ray

Be shed on those whose eyes have seen
Hope's glorious visions fade away.

Shine thou for forms that once were bright,
For sages in the mind's eclipse,

For those whose words were spells of might,
But falter now on stammering lips!

In thy decaying beam there lies

Full many a grave on hill and plain,
Of those who closed their dying eyes
In grief that they had lived in vain.
Another night, and thou among

The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine,
All rayless in the glittering throng

Whose lustre late was quench'd in thine.

Yet soon a new and tender light

From out thy darken'd orb shall beam,

And broaden till it shines all night

On glistening dew and glimmering stream.

THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861.

SOFTLY breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy forest, Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies. Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November, Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies. Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows, Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the

new,

Spared the autumn rose and the garden's group of pansies, Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue.

On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungather'd; Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing

With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me; Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here; Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me,

Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year! Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are wither'd; Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast, When, upon the hillside, all harden'd into iron,

Howling, like a wolf, flies the famish'd northern blast! Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer With delight on nature, or hope on human kind!

Oh

may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me, Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind!

WAITING BY THE GATE.

BESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone by,
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight,
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;
I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is
o'er.

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now,
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrow'd brow;
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.
I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden
day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair.

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!
Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air
Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where !

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ;

But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings

on,

And I again am sooth'd, and, beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are open'd; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quench'd forever, and still'd the sprightly shout.

Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows Its fair young buds unopen'd, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing

near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror, yet these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me,

JAMES FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.*

Born at Guilford, Conn: 1795--died 1867.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power.

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring,-
Then press'd that monarch's throne—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band-
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day;

And now there breath'd that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on,-the Turk awoke :
That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come ! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die 'midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires; *See Note 10.