If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life,
Waking affections that might else have slept,
Or high resolves, the petrified before,
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide

To all of heaven that yet remains on earth, Thine is a useless lute: break it, and die.

THE ADIEU.

WE'LL miss her at the morning hour,
When leaves and eyes unclose;
When sunshine calls the dewy flower
To waken from repose;

For, like the singing of a bird,

When first the sunbeams fall,

The gladness of her voice was heard
The earliest of us all.

We'll miss her at the evening time,
For then her voice and lute

Best loved to sing some sweet old rhyme,
When other sounds were mute.-
Twined round the ancient window-seat,
While she was singing there,
The jasmine from outside would meet,
And wreathe her fragrant hair.

We'll miss her when we gather round
Our blazing hearth at night,

When ancient memories abound,

Or hopes where all unite;

And pleasant talk of years to come-
Those years our fancies frame.
Ah! she has now another home,
And bears another name.

Her heart is not with our old hall,
Nor with the things of yore;
And yet, methinks she must recall
What was so dear before.

She wept to leave the fond roof where
She had been loved so long,
Though glad the peal upon the air,
And gay the bridal throng.

Yes, memory has honey cells,
And some of them are ours;

For in the sweetest of them dwells
The dream of early hours.

The hearth, the hall, the window-seat,
Will bring us to her mind;

In

yon wide world she cannot meet
All that she left behind.

Loved, and beloved, her own sweet will

It was that made her fate;

She has a fairy home - but still

Our own seems desolate.

We may not wish her back again,
Not for her own dear sake:
Oh, love! to form one happy chain,
How many thou must break!

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.

THERE is a flower, a magical flower,

On which love hath laid a fairy power;

Gather it on the eve of St. John,

When the clock of the village is tolling one;

Let no look be turned, no word be said,
And lay the rose-leaves under your head;
Your sleep will be light, and pleasant your rest,
For your visions will be of the youth you love best.
Four days I had not my own love seen,—
Where, sighed I, can my wanderer have been?
I thought I would gather the magical flower,
And see him at least in my sleeping hour!·
St. John's Eve came: to the garden I flew,
Where the white roses shone with the silver dew;
The nightingale sang as I passed along-

I startled to hear even her sweet song;

The sky was bright with moon and star shine,

And the wind was sweet as a whisper of thine,

Dear love! for whose sake I stripped the tree-rose,

And softly and silently stole to repose.

No look I turned, and no word I said,

But laid the white roses under my head.

Oh, sweet was the dream that came to me then!

I dreamt of a lonely and lovely glen;

There was a clear and beautiful sky,
Such as is seen in the blue July;

To the north was a forest of darkling pine;
To the south were hills all green with the vine,
Where the ruby clusters sparkled like gems
Seen upon princely diadems;

On the rocks were goats as white as snow,

And the sheep-bell was heard in the valley below;
And like a nest in the chestnut's shade,
As just for love and contentment made,
A little cottage stood, and the tree
Shadowed it over most gracefully;

A white rose grew up beside the door,
The porch with the blossoms was covered o'er;
Methought it was yours

you were standing by:

You welcomed me, and I felt your sigh
Warm on my cheek, and our lips met,
On mine the touch is thrilling yet!

But, alas! I awakened, and all I can do

Is to tell the sweet dream, my own Love, to you!

CHANGE.

AND this is what is left of youth!

There were two boys, who were bred up together,
Shared the same bed, and fed at the same board;
Each tried the other's sport, from their first chace,
Young hunters of the butterfly and bee,
To when they followed the fleet hare, and tried
The swiftness of the bird. They lay beside
The silver trout-stream, watching as the sun
Played on the bubbles; shared each in the store
Of either's garden; and together read
Of him, the master of the desert isle,
Till a low hut, a gun, and a canoe,
Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came

A thought of future days, 'twas but to say

That they would share each other's lot, and do

Wonders, no doubt. But this was vain: they parted

With promises of long remembrance, words

Whose kindness was the heart's, and those warm tears Hidden like shame by the young eyes which shed them, But which are thought upon in after years,

As what we would give worlds to shed once more.

They met again, — but different from themselves, At least what each remembered of themselves: The one proud as a soldier of his rank, And of his many battles; and the other Proud of his Indian wealth, and of the skill And toil which gathered it; each with a brow And heart alike darkened by years and care. They met with cold words, and yet colder looks: Each was changed in himself, and yet each thought The other only changed, himself the same. And coldness bred dislike, and rivalry

Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet thoughts, That lingered yet, healthy and beautiful,

Amid dark and unkindly ones.

And they,

Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word,
Were strangers in their age: if their eyes met,
'T was but to look contempt, and when they spoke.
Their speech was wormwood!

And this, this is life!

...