KINDRED HEARTS.

OH! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below!

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountain flow;

Few- and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of Spring,
Borne amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring-
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times-
A sorrowful delight;

The melody of distant climes

The sound of waves by night;

The wind, that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill-
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one, that, o'er the dead,
Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed-
Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend-
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given-

Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.

A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower!

The bridal day — the festival — the tomb —
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower!

Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by
A thousand images of love and grief,

Dreams filled with tokens of mortality,

Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.

Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first,
In the clear light of Eden's golden day!

There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst,
Link'd with no dim remembrance of decay.

Rose! for the banquet gathered, and the bier; Rose! colored now by human hope or pain: Surely, where death is not nor change, nor fear,

Yet may we meet thee, Joy's own flower, again!

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

THOU'RT bearing hence thy roses,

Glad Summer,—fare thee well! Thou'rt singing thy last melodies In every wood and dell.

But in the golden sunset

Of thy latest lingering day,

Oh! tell me, o'er this chequered earth,
How hast thou pass'd away.

Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly

Thine hours are floated by,

To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs,
The rangers of the sky.

And brightly in the forests

To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly 'midst the garden flowers To the happy murmuring bee.

But how to human bosoms,

With all their hopes and fears,

And thoughts that make them eagle wings
To pierce the unborn years?

Sweet Summer! to the captive

Thou hast flown in burning dreams

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves,

And the blue rejoicing streams:

To the wasted and the weary,

On the bed of sick ess bound,

In sweet delicious fantasies,

That changed with every sound:

To the sailor on the billows,

In longings wild and vain,

From the gushing founts and breezy hills And the homes of earth again!

And unto me, glad Summer!

How hast thou flown to me?

My chainless footsteps nought hath kept From thy haunts of song and glee.

Thou hast flown in wayward visions,
In memories of the dead-

In shadows from a troubled heart,
O'er thy sunny pathway shed:

In brief and sudden strivings,
To fling a weight aside —
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased,
And all thy roses died.

But oh! thou gentle Summer,

If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again thy buoyancy, Wherewith my soul should soar!

Give me to hail thy sunshine,
With song and spirit free;

Or in a purer air than this

May that next meeting be.

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts: - for every flower, sweet dew, In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew

The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies

Far amidst folding hills or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star

Making thy streams, that, on their noonday track,
Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace; I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things:

Who calls me silent? I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans
Borne on my sweeping wings.

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