Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Were many changed to chips and clods, And even statues of the gods Crumbled beneath its touch. Then angrily the people cried, Our goods suffice us as they are; We will not have them tried." And since they could not so avail test How real is our jail!" But, though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his touchstone burned, Its doings could not be o'erturned, Its undoings restored. And when, to stop all future harm, They strewed its ashes on the breeze; They little guessed each grain of these "The loss outweighs the profit far; | Conveyed the perfect charm. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. As when in watches of the night we see, Hanging in tremulous beauty o'er the bed, The face we loved on Earth, now from us fled; So wan, so sweet, so spiritually free From taint of Earth, thy tender drawings be. There we may find a friend remembered; With a new aureole hovering round the head, Given by Art's peaceful immortality. How many homes half empty fill the place Death vacates, with thy gracious substitutes! Not sensuous with color, which may disgrace The memory of the body shared with brutes; But the essential spirit in the face; TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, AFTER THE WAR. OH! happiest thou, who from the shining height, Of tablelands serene can look below Where glared the tempest, and the lightning's glow, And see thy seed made harvest wave in light, And all the darkened land with God's smile bright! Leaving with him the issue. Enough to know Aibeit the sword hath sundered brethers so, As angels see us, best, Affection To music God sounds in the human "SHE is dead!" they said to him. The sweet, the stately, the beautiful "Come away; Kiss her! and leave her!-thy love is clay!" They smoothed her trosses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of marble they laid it fair: Over her eyes, which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; About her brows, and her dear, pale face They tied her veil and her marriagelace; dead, And drew on her white feet her But to heart and to soul distinct, HE who died at Azan sends Pale and white and cold as snow; "Abdallah's dead!" Weeping at the feet and head, Sweet friends! What the women lave Of the falcon, not the bars stars. Loving friends! Be wise and dry Tis an earthen jar, whose lid Allah glorious! Allah good! Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; Be ye certain all seems love, Thou love divine! Thou love alway! 'Tis good that thy name springs Oh voice! in night of fear, Oh watcher! worn and pale, England is glad of thee- Take thee to joy when hand and heart are still! |