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"All souls did reverence him, and name him Maker"

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"A troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away"

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"Since first I saw Atlantic throw On our fierce rocks his thunderous snow"

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EARLIER POEMS.

THRENODIA.

When his glad mother on him stole
And snatched him to her breast!

GONE, gone from us! and shall we see O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes,

Those sibyl-leaves of destiny,

Those calm eyes, nevermore?

That would have soared like strong

winged birds

Those deep, dark eyes so warm and Far, far into the skies,

bright,

Wherein the fortunes of the man
Lay slumbering in prophetic light,
In characters a child might scan?
So bright, and gone forth utterly!
O stern word-Nevermore!

The stars of those two gentle eyes
Will shine no more on earth;
Quenched are the hopes that had their
birth,

As we watched them slowly rise,
Stars of a mother's fate;

And she would read them o'er and o'er,
Pondering, as she sate,

Over their dear astrology,
Which she had conned and conned before,
Deeming she needs must read aright
What was writ so passing bright.
And yet, alas! she knew not why,
Her voice would falter in its song,

And tears would slide from out her eye,
Silent, as they were doing wrong.
O stern word-Nevermore!

Gladding the earth with song,
And gushing harmonies,

Had he but tarried with us long!
O stern word- Nevermore !

How peacefully they rest,
Crossfolded there

Upon his little breast,

Those small, white hands that ne'er were
still before,

But ever sported with his mother's hair,
Or the plain cross that on her breast she

wore !

Her heart no more will beat
To feel the touch of that soft palm,
That ever seemed a new surprise
Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes
To bless him with their holy calm,
Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as

sweet.

How quiet are the hands

-

That wove those pleasant bands!
But that they do not rise and sink
With his calm breathing, I should think
That he were dropped asleep.

The tongue that scarce had learned to Alas! too deep, too deep

claim

An entrance to a mother's heart

By that dear talisman, a mother's name,
Sleeps all forgetful of its art!
I loved to see the infant soul
(How mighty in the weakness
Of its untutored meekness!)
Peep timidly from out its nest,
His lips, the while,

Fluttering with half-fledged words,
Or hushing to a smile

That more than words expressed,

Is this his slumber!
Time scarce can number

The years ere he will wake again.
O, may we see his eyelids open then!
O stern word Nevermore!

As the airy gossamere,
Floating in the sunlight clear,
Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly,
Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly,
So from his spirit wandered out
Tendrils spreading all about,

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