My sad heart in thy garden strays alone,
My heart among all hearts companionless;
Between the roses and the lilies thrown,
It finds thy garden but a wilderness.

Great quiet in thy garden, now the song
Of that last nightingale has died away!
Here jangling city-chimes the silence wrong,
But in thy garden perfect rest has sway.

Dawn in thy garden, with the faintest sound
Uncertain, tremulous, awaking birds!
Dawn in thy garden, and from meadows round,
The sudden lowing of expectant herds.

Light in thy garden, faint, and sweet, and pure;
Dim noise of birds from every bush and tree;
Rumors of song the stars may not endure;

A rain that falls and ceases suddenly!

Morn in thy garden, bright, and keen, and strong!
Love calls thee from thy garden to awake;
Morn in thy garden, with the articulate song
Of birds that sing for love and warm light's sake.

II.

Wind in thy garden to-night, my love,
Wind in thy garden, and rain;
A sound of storm in the shaken grove,
And cries as of spirits in pain!

If there's wind in thy garden outside,
And troublous darkness, dear,
What carest thou, an elected bride,

And the bridal hour so near?

All things come to an end, my sweet-
Life, and the pleasure in living;
The years run swiftly with agile feet.

The years that are taking and giving.

Soon shalt thou have thy bliss supreme,
And soon shall it pass away;

So turn thyself to thy rest and dream;
Nor heed what the mad winds say.

III.

Snow in thy garden, falling thick and fast,

Snow in thy garden where the grass shall be! What dreams to-night? Thy dreaming nights are past, Thou hast no glad or grievous memory.

Love in thy garden boweth down his head,
His tears are falling on the wind-piled snow;
He takes no heed of life, now thou art dead,
He recks not how the seasons come or go.

Death in thy garden! In the violent air

That sweeps thy radiant garden thou art still; For thee is no more rapture or despair,

And Love and Death of thee have had their will.

Night in the garden, white with snow and sleetNight rushing on with wind and storm toward day!

Alas, thy garden holdeth nothing sweet,

Nor sweet can come again, and thou away.

drawstrin

TO THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.

DELIVERED AT THE MEETING OF 1880, BURLINGTON,

O! remnant of that perished host,

Rise up! Recross that ghostly shore!
Advance! Press in each proud outpost
And conquer! Conquer as before!
Aye conquer, so that nevermore
May arm or army dare uprise

Beneath these star-strewn bannered skies!

Aye conquer! So that cycles through
All earth would sooner lift high hand
To cleave God's starry blue

Than the banner of this land.

And conquer all with love! With hands
Outstretched as eager brothers reach
When stormy seas and trackless lands

Have long divided them, let each

Man slay his man with love. Aye, teach

The world the art of war; to know

That love beats down the bravest foe.

And that hate shall cease forever

And wars forever cease,
Teach marshaled, piteous Europe
The victory of peace.

VT.

To you, brave men, Peace makes appeal.

To you who know the awful woe

Of studied war, who bore the steel
Above that noblest, bravest foe
That ever fell, saw lifted there

Pale boyish faces, touched white hands
That dropt the sword to lift in prayer
And die along the blood-soaked lands.
Το

you Peace makes appeal for Peace; For only he who bears a scar

Can know the agonies

That track the trade of war.

Grim heroes of an age, the dream
Of Calvary behooves the brave,
When next your battle-banners gleam
In glad reunion, let them wave
Beyond Potomac's storied stream.
Recross and meet again the gray;
Meet there as you meet here to-day.

As June to May, blend blue to gray!

Strike hands and hold as honored guest Each brave and battered hero

You last met breast to breast.

God frowned

True men were they in that dark day
To cause they deemed the truth.
Displeasure, and they passed away,
Pride-crushed and penitent. The ground
Is tilled. The high-born son lays bare
A broken sword with bright ploughshare-
He ploughs a sire's leveled mound!

Yea, they have borne defeat like gods.
And such defeat! Or wrong or right,

It takes a truer man to bear

Defeat like that than win the fight.

Grand men, you too have donned the gray;

That broader stream rolls dark before.
Your ranks grow thin; the reveillé

Beats ever on that farther shore
Dread muffled notes none disobey.
Fill up your wasted ranks with those
You knew as not unworthy foes.

Fill up, 'bout face, and so prepare

To cross together; aye, to vie

In valor in that crossing where
Nor blue nor gray shall signify.

THE FORTUNATE ISLES.

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles,
The old Greek Isles of the yellow-birds' song?
Then steer straight on through the watery miles,
Straight on, straight on and you can't go wrong.

Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right,
But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight.
The Fortunate Isles where the yellow-birds sing
And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles they are not so far,

They lie within reach of the lowliest door, You can see them gleam by the twilight star;

You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore— Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave-stones They were landing-steps; they were steps unto thrones Of glory for souls that have sailed before,

And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.