All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground
to die.
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see,-
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf,

That trembles in the moon's pale ray!

Its hold is frail, its date is brief;

Restless, and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea,

But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ?

Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe:

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,

Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;

To thee, the palm of scoffing, we ascribe,

Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule!

For such thou art by day—but all Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, night long

solemn, strain,

WHILST THEe I seek.

WHILST Thee I seek, protecting Power!

Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the power of thought bestowed,

To Thee my thoughts would soar: Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed; That mercy I adore.

In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each blessing to my soul most dear,
Because conferred by Thee.

In every joy that crowns my days, In every pain I bear,

My steadfast heart shall know no fear;

That heart will rest on Thee.

SONNET TO HOPE.

Он, ever skilled to wear the form we love,

To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,

Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove

The lasting sadness of an aching heart.

Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;

That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,

Shall soften or shall chase misfortune's gloom.

Or seek relief in prayer.

When gladness wings my favored hour,

Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower,

My soul shall meet Thy will.

My lifted eye, without a tear, The gathering storm shall see;

TO A CITY PIGEON.

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!

Thy daily visits have touched my love. I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,

And my joy is high

Why dost thou sit on the heated

eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves ?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet?

How canst thou bear

And thy glossy wings

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years;

And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this,

And I half renew my prime.

In the midst of your merry ring:

can feel the thrill of the daring

jump,

And the rush of the breathless

swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreari

ness

To see the young so gay.

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY."

TIRED of play! tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day?

The birds are silent, and so is the bee;

Of wild and careless play. And persuade myself that I am not

old,

And my locks are not yet gray;

tree;

The doves have flown to the shelter

Then, when the night steals on, as now,

It will bring relief to thine aching brow,

And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,

Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION OF HIS CLASS.

YE'VE gathered to your place of prayer

With slow and measured tread: Your ranks are full, your mates all there

But the soul of one has fled.
He was the proudest in his strength,
The manliest of ye all;

Why lies he at that fearful length,
And ye around his pall?

Ye reckon it in days, since he

Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously, Oh, had it been but told you then, And his lip wreathed with a smile.

From out yon rank of fresh-lipped To mark whose lamp was dim