Iron is heaped in mountain piles,
And gluts the laggard forges:
But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles
And lonely gorges.

The snowy marble flecks the land
With heaped and rounded ledges,
But diamonds hide within the sand
Their starry edges.

The finny armies clog the twine
That sweeps the lazy river,
But pearls come singly from the brine,
With the pale diver.

God gives no value unto men

Unmatched by meed of labor; And Cost, of Worth, has ever been The closest neighbor.

Wide is the gate and broad the way
That opens to perdition,
And countless multitudes are they
Who seek admission.

But strait the gate, the path unkind,
That leads to life immortal,
And few the careful feet that find,
The hidden portal.

All common good has common price;
Exceeding good, exceeding;
Christ bought the keys of Paradise
By cruel bleeding;

And every soul that wins a place
Upon its hills of pleasure,
Must give its all, and beg for grace
To fill the measure.

[From Bitter-Sweet.]

CRADLE SONG.

HITHER, Sleep! a mother wants thee!
Come with velvet arms!
Fold the baby that she grants thee
To thy own soft charms!

Bear him into Dreamland lightly!
Give him sight of flowers!
Do not bring him back till brightly
Break the morning hours!

Close his eyes with gentle fingers!
Cross his hands of snow!
Tell the angels where he lingers
They must whisper low!

I will guard thy spell unbroken
If thou hear my call;
Come, then, Sleep! I wait the toker
Of thy downy thrall.

Now I see his sweet lips moving;
He is in thy keep;

Other milk the babe is proving
At the breast of Sleep!

[From Bitter-Sweet.]

TO AN INFANT SLEEPING. SLEEP, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence!

Sleep like a bud; for soon the sun of life

With ardors quick and passionate shall rise,

And with hot kisses, part the fra grant lips

The folded petals of thy soul! Alas! What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then!

What pride and pain, ambition and despair,

Desire, satiety, and all that fill
With misery, life's fretful enterprise,
Shall wrench and blanch thee, till
thou fall at last,

Joy after joy down-fluttering to the earth,

To be apportioned to the elements!
I marvel, baby, whether it were ill
That he who planted thee should
pluck thee now,

And save thee from the light that comes on all.

I marvel whether it would not be well That the frail bud should burst in Paradise,

On the full throbbing of an angel's heart!

First of the three, my darling, Is sacred unto pain;

We have hurt each other often: We shall again,

Buried, forgiven, before it comes, For our love's sake!

The second kiss, my darling,

Is full of joy's sweet thrill;
We have blessed each other always;
We always will.

We shall reach till we feel each other,
Past all of time and space;
We shall listen till we hear each
other

In every place;

The earth is full of messengers Which love sends to and fro; I kiss thee, darling, for all joy Which we shall know!

The last kiss, oh, my darling,
My love - I cannot see

Through my tears, as I remember
What it may be.

Die with no time to give

Any sign that our hearts are faithful To die, as live.

Token of what they will not see

Who see our parting breath, This one last kiss, my darling, seals The seal of death!

On her hand a parrot green
Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,
Look! there's a rent the light shines
through,
Dark with

a century's fringe

of

dust, That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter told.

Who the painter was none may tell,One whose best was not over well; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed:

Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,
Dainty colors of red and white,

And in her slender shape are seen
Hint and promise of stately mien.

Look not on her with eyes of scorn,-
Dorothy Q. was a lady born!
Ay! since the galloping Normans

came,

England's annals have known her

name;

town

Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreath they won, The youthful sire and the gray-haired

son.

O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.!
Strange is the gift that I owe to you;
Such a gift as never a king
Save to daughter or son might
bring,

All my tenure of heart and hand,
All my title to house and land;
Mother and sister and child and wife
And joy and sorrow and death and
life!

What if a hundred years ago
Those close-shut lips had answered
No.

When forth the tremulous question

came

That cost the maiden her Norman

name,

And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill?

Should I be I, or would it be

One tenth another to nine-tenths me?