The holy joy the poet calls his own.
And the soft breeze that sings among the boughs
In numbers like the famed AEolian harp
Seems blending with its tones, till earthly cares
Melt, as beneath the syren's spell, and die!

Thus lightly o'er the waves his bark goes on,
Hope for a beacon shining bright above.
While firmly at the helm stands fair Content
To steer him safely till he reach the shore.
And then, when Death's grim portals open wide,
And he has reached the Land he dreamed and sung,
Oh! bliss to wander o'er the streets of gold,
_His_ harp-notes mingling with the choirs of Heaven!
His hopes all realized, "faith lost in sight"--
His life a poem which God Himself hath read!




MORNING.


The gladsome Morning looked across the hills,
Clad in his richly tinted robes; the opal dawn,
Faint blushing in the East, grew clear and brighter,
Till the resplendent sunrise decked the sky.
It shone upon the woods--the birds awoke
To chant their welcome to the god of day.
It shone upon the meadows, and the flowers