MARIAN'S FIRST HALF-YEAR.

MAIDEN Marian, born in May,
When the earth with flowers was gay,
And the Hours by day and night
Wore the jewels of delight:
Half-a-year has vanish'd by
Like a wondrous pageantry-
Mother May with fairy flowers,

June with dancing leaf-crown'd Hours,
July red with harvest-rust,
Swarthy August white with dust,
Mild September clothed in gold,
Wise October, hermit old-

And the world, so new and strange,
Circled you in olden change,
Since the miracle-morn of birth
Made your May-day on the earth.
Half-a-year, sweet child, has brought
To your eyes the soul of thought;
To your lips, with cries so dumb,
Baby-syllables have come,
Dreams of fairy language known
To your mother's heart alone-
Ante-Hebrew words complete
(To old Noah obsolete);

You have learn'd expressions strange,
Miracles of facial change,
Winning gestures, supplications,
Stamp'd entreaties, exhortations-
Oratory eloquent

Where no more is said than meant:
You have lived philosophies
Older far than Socrates-
Holiest life you've understood
Better than oldest wise and good:
Such as erst in Eden's light
Shunn'd not God's nor angels' sight;
You have caught with subtler eyes
Close Pythagorean ties

In the bird and in the tree,
And in every thing you see;
You have found and practise well
(Moulding life of principle)
Epicurean doctrines old

Of the Hour's fruit of gold:
Lifted, Moses-like, you stand,
Looking, where the Promised Land
Dazzles far away your sight-
Milk-and-honey's your delight!
Maiden Marian, born in May,
Half-a-year has pass'd away;
Half a-year of cannon-pealing,
('Twas your era of good-feeling,)
You have scarce heard dreader sound
Than those privateers around,
Buzzing flies, a busy brood,
Lovers of sweet baby hood-

Than the hum of lullaby

Rock'd to dreamland tenderly;

Half-a-year of dreadest sights
Through bright days and fairy nights,
You have seen no dreader thing
Than the marvel of a wing,

Than the leaves whose shadows warm
Play'd in many a phantom swarm
On the floor, the table under,
Lighting your small face with wonder!
Maiden Marian, born in May,
Half-a-year has pass'd away:
"Tis a dark November day;
Lifted by our window, lo!
Washington is whirl'd in snow!
But, within, the fluttering flame
Keeps you summer-warm the same,
And your mother (while I write),
Crimson'd by the ember light,
Murmurs sweeter things to you
Than I'd write a half-year through;
Baby lyrics, lost to art,
Found within a mother's heart.

Maiden Marian, born in May,
I'll not question Time to-day,
For the mysteries of your morrows,
Girlhood's joys or woman's sorrows,
But (while-side by side, alone-
We recall your summer flown,
And, with eyes that cannot look,
Hold his clasped Mystery-Book)
I will trust when May is here
He shall measure you a year,
With another half-year sweet
Make the ring of light complete :
We will date our New-Years thence,
Full of summer songs and sense-
All the years begun that day
Shall be born and die in May!

THE BLACKBERRY FARM.

NATURE gives with freest hands
Richest gifts to poorest lands:
When the lord has sown his last
And his field's to desert pass'd,
She begins to claim her own,
And-instead of harvests flown,
Sunburnt sheaves and golden ears-
Sends her hardier pioneers;
Barbarous brambles, outlaw'd seeds,
The first families of weeds
Fearing neither sun nor wind,
With the flowers of their kind
(Outcasts of the garden-bound),
Colonize the expended ground,
Using (none her right gainsay)
Confiscations of decay:

I WATCH the leaves that flutter in the wind,
Bathing my eyes with coolness and my heart
Filling with springs of grateful sense anew,
Before my window-in the sun and rain.
And now the wind is gone and now the rain,
And all a motionless moment breathe, and now
Playful the wind comes back-again the shower,
Again the sunshine! Like a golden swarm
Of butterflies the leaves are fluttering,
The leaves are dancing, singing-all alive
(For Fancy gives her breath to every leaf)
For the blithe moment. Beautiful to me,
Of all inanimate things most beautiful,
And dear as flowers their kindred, are the leaves
In all their summer life; and, when a child,
I loved to lie through sunny afternoons
With half-shut eyes (familiar eyes with things
Long unfamiliar, knowing Fairyland
And all the unhidden mysteries of the Earth)
Using my kinship in those earlier days
With Nature and the humbler people, dear
To her green life, in every shade and sun.
The leaves had myriad voices, and their joy
One with the birds' that sang among them seem'd;
And, oftentimes, I lay in breezy shade
Till, creeping with the loving stealth he takes
In healthy temperaments, the blessed Sleep

(Thrice blessed and thrice blessing now, because Of sleepless things that will not give us rest) Came with his weird processions-dreams that

wore

All happy masks-blithe fairies numberless,
Forever passing, never more to pass,

The Spirits of the Leaves. Awaking then,
Behold the sun was swimming in my face
Through mists of his creations, swarming gold,
And all the leaves in sultry languor lay
Above me, for I waken'd when they dropp'd
Asleep, unmoving. Now, when Time has ceased
His holiday, and I am prison'd close

In his harsh service, master'd by his Hours,
The leaves have not forgotten me: behold,
They play with me like children who, awake,
Find one most dear asleep and waken him
To their own gladness from his sultry dream;
But nothing sweeter do they give to me
Than thoughts of one who, far away, perchance
Watches, like me, the leaves, and thinks of me
While o'er her window, sunnily, the shower
Touches all boughs to music, and the rose
Beneath swings lovingly toward the pane,
And she, whom Nature gave the freshest sense
For all her delicate life, rejoices in

The joy of birds that use the sun to sing
With breasts o'er-full of music. "Little Birds,"
She sings," sing to my little Bird below!"
And with her child-like fancy, half-belief,
She hears them sing and makes believe they obey,
And the child, wakening, listens motionless.

He keeps his state,-do thou keep thine,
And shine upon me from afar!
So shall I bask in light divine

That falls from Love's own guiding-star.
So shall thy eminence be high,
And so my passion shall not die.

But all my life shall reach its hands

Of lofty longing toward thy face, And be as one who speechless stands In rapture at some perfect grace. My love, my hope, my all, shall be To look to heaven and look to thee.

Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights;
Thy voice shall be the summer breeze,
What time its sways, on moonlit nights,
The murmuring tops of leafy trees;
And I will touch thy beauteous form
In June's red roses, rich and warm.

But thou thyself shalt come not down
From that pure region far above;
But keep thy throne and wear thy crown,
Queen of my heart and queen of love!
A monarch in thy realm complete,
And I a monarch-at thy feet!

AFTER ALL. 1862.

THE apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage-door the grandsire
Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,
While a gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is prest,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance
The faltering echoes come,

Of the flying blast of trumpet
And the rattling roll of drum.

Then the grandsire speaks, in a whisper,-
"The end no man can see;
But we give him to his country,

And we give our prayers to Thee.". . .

The violets star the meadows,

The rose-buds fringe the door,

And over the grassy orchard

The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still,

There's a nameless grave on the battle-field,
And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid, tearless woman

By the cold hearth sits alone; And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.

AZRAEL.

COME with a smile, when come thou must, Evangel of the world to be,

And touch and glorify this dust,—

This shuddering dust that now is me,And from this prison set me free!

Long in those awful eyes I quail,
That gaze across the grim profound:
Upon that sea there is no sail,
Nor any light nor any sound
From the far shore that girds it round

Only two still and steady rays,
That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop;
Only a quiet, patient gaze

That drinks my being, drop by drop,
And bids the pulse of Nature stop.

Come with a smile, auspicious friend,
To usher in the eternal day!
Of these weak terrors make an end,
And charm the paltry chains away
That bind me to this timorous clay!

And let me know my soul akin

To sunrise and the winds of morn, And every grandeur that has been

Since this all-glorious world was born, Nor longer droop in my own scorn.

Come, when the way grows dark and chil Come, when the battled mind is weak, And in the heart that voice is still

Which used in happier days to speak, Or only whispers sadly meek.

Come with a smile that dims the sun!

With pitying heart and gentle hand! And waft me, from a work that's done, To peace that waits on thy command, In God's mysterious better land.

THE HEART'S ANCHOR.

THINK of me as your friend, I pray,
And call me by a loving name:

I will not care what others say,
If only you remain the same.
I will not care how dark the night,

I will not care how wild the storm;
Your love will fill my heart with light,

And shield me close and keep me warm

Think of me as your friend, I pray,
For else my life is little worth:
So shall your memory light my way.
Although we meet no more on earth.
For while I know your faith secure,
I ask no happier fate to see:
Thus to be loved by one so pure
Is honor rich enough for me.