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To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow ;
A LOVED bequest-and I may half impart
That living flower uprose beneath his eye.
From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by,
Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
And more engaging grew from pleasing day to day.
I may not paint those thousand infant charms, (Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)
The orison repeated in his arms,
For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind);
All uncompanioned else her years had gone,
Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer shone.
And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,
The red wild flowers on his brow were blent,
And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,
Of Christian vesture and complexion bright,
Led by his dusty guide, like morning brought by night.
THE LAST MAN.
ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight-the brands
In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by,
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go;
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
What though beneath thee man put forth
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Entailed on human hearts.
Go-let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies,
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall-
This spirit shall return to Him
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Or shake his trust in God!
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn;