A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son ! there is a toil

That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands, This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and be-

nign;

A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

THE ROSE: A BALLAD.

I.

In his tower sat the poet
Gazing on the roaring sea,

"Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it

Where there 's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth

And sinks back into the seas,
But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease.
Take, O sea! the tender blossom
That hath lain against my breast
On thy black and angry bosom
It will find a surer rest.
Life is vain, and love is hollow,

Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate and scorn and hunger follow
Him that toileth for his kind."
Forth into the night he hurled it,
And with bitter smile did mark
How the surly tempest whirled it
Swift into the hungry dark.
Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
Through the breakers all alone.

II.

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,
Musing by the wave-beat strand,
Half in hope and half in sorrow,
Tracing words upon the sand:
"Shall I ever then behold him

Who hath been my life so long,
Ever to this sick heart fold him,
Be the spirit of his song?
Touch not, sea, the blessed letters
I have traced upon thy shore,
Spare his name whose spirit fetters

Mine with love forevermore !"
Swells the tide and overflows it,

But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token,

And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken

With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone."

III.

In his tower sits the poet,

Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it

With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth "With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,

Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power,

Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. Hope is truth, the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth

Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden uttered,

Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek.

THOU look'dst on me all yesternight,
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright
As when we murmured our troth-plight
Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline!
Thy hair was braided on thy head,
As on the day we two were wed,
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead,
But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!

The death-watch ticked behind the wall,
The blackness rustled like a pall,
The moaning wind did rise and fall
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline!
My heart beat thickly in mine ears:
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears,
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline !

A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline?
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and gone,
A strong soul ousted from its throne,
What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nights as these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,
And then thou comest, Rosaline !
I seem to hear the mourners go,
With long black garments trailing slow,
And plumes anodding to and fro,
As once I heard them, Rosaline !

Thy shroud is all of snowy white, And, in the middle of the night,

Thou standest moveless and upright,
Gazing upon me, Rosaline!
There is no sorrow in thine eyes,
But evermore that meek surprise,-
O God! thy gentle spirit tries
To deem me guiltless, Rosaline !

Above thy grave the robin sings,
And swarms of bright and happy things
Flit all about with sunlit wings,
But I am cheerless, Rosaline!
The violets on the hillock toss,

The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss;
For nature feels not any loss,

But I am cheerless, Rosaline !

I did not know when thou wast dead;
A blackbird whistling overhead
Thrilled through my brain; I would have
fled,

But dared not leave thee, Rosaline !
The sun rolled down, and very soon,
Like a great fire, the awful moon
Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon
Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline !

The stars came out; and, one by one,
Each angel from his silver throne
Looked down and saw what I had done:
I dared not hide me, Rosaline !
I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry
Against me to God's silent sky,
I thought I saw the blue lips try
To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin
To hear that voice all icy thin
Slide forth and tell my deadly sin
To hell and heaven, Rosaline!
But no voice came, and then it seemed,
That, if the very corpse had screamed,
The sound like sunshine glad had streamed
Through that dark stillness, Rosaline !

And then, amid the silent night,
I screamed with horrible delight,
And in my brain an awful light
Did seem to crackle, Rosaline!
It is my curse! sweet memories fall
From me like snow, and only all
Of that one night, like cold worms, crawl
My doomed heart over, Rosaline !

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,
Wherein such blessed memories,
Such pitying forgiveness lies,
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline!
Woe 's me! I know that love so high
As thine, true soul, could never die,
And with mean clay in churchyard lie,—
Would it might be so, Rosaline!

A REQUIEM.

AY, pale and silent maiden,
Cold as thou liest there,
Thine was the sunniest nature
That ever drew the air,
The wildest and most wayward,

And yet so gently kind,

O MOONLIGHT deep and tender,
A year and more agone,
Your mist of golden splendor
Round my betrothal shone !

O elm-leaves dark and dewy,
The very same ye seem,
The low wind trembles through ye,
Ye murmur in my dream!

O river, dim with distance,
Flow thus forever by,

A part of my existence
Within your heart doth lie!

O stars, ye saw our meeting,
Two beings and one soul,
Two hearts so madly beating
To mingle and be whole!

O happy night, deliver

Her kisses back to me,
Or keep them all, and give her
A blissful dream of me!

I.

TO A. C. L.

THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast

passed

To show us what a woman true may be: They have not taken sympathy from thee, Nor made thee any other than thou wast, Save as some tree, which, in a sudden blast,

Sheddeth those blossoms, that are weakly grown,

Upon the air, but keepeth every one Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last :

So thou hast shed some blooms of gayety,

But never one of steadfast cheerfulness; Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, But rather cleared thine inner eyes to see How many simple ways there are to bless.

Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart above the tide of things,
High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery
wings;

But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood
All earthly things, making them pure
and good.

IV.

"FOR this true nobleness I seek in vain, In woman and in man I find it not; I almost weary of my earthly lot, My life-springs are dried up with burning pain."

Thou find'st it not? I pray thee look again,

Look inward through the depths of thine

own soul.

How is it with thee? Art thou sound and whole?

Doth narrow search show thee no earthly stain?

BE NOBLE! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own ; Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes, Then will pure light around thy path be shed,

And thou wilt nevermore be sad and lone.

V.

TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS.

GREAT soul, thou sittest with me in my room,

Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes, On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies The twilight warmth of ruddy embergloom:

Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom

Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries, Wrestling with the young poet's agonies, Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain

doom:

Yes! the few words which, like great thunder-drops,

Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully,

Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might,

Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light, Shall track the eternal chords of Destiny, After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops.

VI.

GREAT Truths are portions of the soul of

man;

Great souls are portions of Eternity ;