Above that low horizon lean,
And marked within the Merrimack
The self-same sunset reddening back,
Or in the Powow's shining stream,
That silent river of a dream!

Where Craneneck o'er the woody gloom

Lifts her steep mile of apple-bloom: Where Salisbury Sands, in yellow length

With the great breaker measures strength;

Where Artichoke in shadow slides,
The lily on her painted tides -
There's naught in the enchanted view
That does not seem a part of you;
Your legends hang on every hill,
Your songs have made it dearer still.

Yours is the river-road; and yours
Are all the mighty meadow floors
Where the long Hampton levels lie
Alone between the sea and sky.
Fresher in Follymill shall blow
The Mayflowers, that you loved them

PALMISTRY.

A LITTLE hand, a fair soft hand
Dimpled and sweet to kiss:

No sculptor ever carved from stone
A lovelier hand than this.

A hand as idle and as white
As lilies on their stems;
Dazzling with rosy finger-tips,
Dazzling with crusted gems.

Another hand, a tired old hand,
Written with many lines;
A faithful, weary hand, whereon
The pearl of great price shines!

For folded, as the winged fly

Sleeps in the chrysalis, Within this little palm I see That lovelier hand than this!

FANTASIA.

WE'RE all alone, we're all alone! The moon and stars are dead and gone:

The night's at deep, the wind asleep, And thou and I are all alone!

What care have we though life there

A FOUR-O'CLOCK.

Ан, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
Forever in mid-afternoon,
Ah, happy day of happy June!
Pour out thy sunshine on the hill,
The piny wood with perfume fill,
And breathe across the singing sea
Land-scented breezes, that shall be
Sweet as the gardens that they pass,
Where children tumble in the grass!

Ah, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
And long not for thy blushing rest
In the soft bosom of the west,
But bid gray evening get her back
With all the stars upon her track!
Forget the dark, forget the dew,
The mystery of the midnight blue,
And only spread thy wide warm
wings
[flings!
While Summer her enchantment

Ah, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
Forever let thy tender mist
Lie like dissolving amethyst
Deep in the distant dales, and shed
Thy mellow glory overhead!
Yet wilt thou wander,

thrush,

- call the

And have the wilds and waters hush To hear his passion-broken tune,

Ah, happy day of happy June!

A SNOWDROP.

ONLY a tender little thing,

So velvet soft and white it is; But March himself is not so strong, With all the great gales that are his.

In vain his whistling storms he calls, In vain the cohorts of his power Ride down the sky on mighty blasts

He cannot crush the little flower.

Its white spear parts the sod, the

snows

Than that white spear less snowy

are,

The rains roll off its crest like spray, It lifts again its spotless star.

Blow, blow, dark March! To meet you here,

Thrust upward from the central gloom,

The stellar force of the old earth Pulses to life in this slight bloom.

MY OWN SONG.

OH, glad am I that I was born!
For who is sad when flaming morn
Bursts forth, or when the mighty
night

Carries the soul from height to height!

To me, as to the child that sings, The bird that claps his rain-washed wings, [dower, The breeze that curls the sun-tipped Comes some new joy with each new hour.

Joy in the beauty of the earth,
Joy in the fire upon the hearth,
Joy in that potency of love

In which I live and breathe and move!
Joy even in the shapeless thought
That, some day, when all tasks are
wrought,

I shall explore that vasty deep
Beyond the frozen gates of sleep.

For joy attunes all beating things,
With me each rhythmic atom sings,
From glow till gloom, from mirk till
morn;

Oh, glad am I that I was born!

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

WHAT love do I bring you? The earth,

Full of love, were far lighter; The great hollow sky, full of love, Something slighter.

Earth full and heaven full were less Than the full measure given; Nay, say a heart full, - the heart Holds earth and heaven!

ODE ON ART.

WHEN, from the sacred garden driven, Man fled before his Maker's wrath, An angel left her place in heaven,

And crossed the wanderer's sunless path,

"Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke

Where her light foot flew o'er the ground,

And thus, with seraph voice she spoke

"The Curse a blessing shall be found."

With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,

He bids the ore illume the page, And, proudly scorning Time's control,

Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name,

And treads the chambers of the

sky;

He reads the stars, and grasps the flame

That quivers round the Throne on high,

In war renowned, in peace sublime, He moves in greatness and in grace;

wild,

Links realm to realm and race to