And trench the strong hard mould with the

spade,

Where never before a grave was made;
For he hewed the dark old woods away,

And gave the virgin fields to the day;

And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened be

fore;

And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky.

'Tis said that when life is ended here,
The spirit is borne to a distant sphere;
That it visits its earthly home no more,
Nor looks on the haunts it loved before.
But why should the bodiless soul be sent
Far off, to a long, long banishment?
Talk not of the light and the living green!
It will pine for the dear familiar scene;

It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to

behold

The rock and the stream it knew of old.

'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not!

Death to the good is a milder lot.

They are here, they are here, that harmless

pair,

In the yellow sunshine and flowing air,

In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass,

In the sounds that rise from the murmuring

grass.

They sit where their humble cottage stood,
They walk by the waving edge of the wood,
And list to the long accustomed flow

Of the brook that wets the rocks below.
Patient, and peaceful, and passionless,
As seasons on seasons swiftly press,

They watch, and wait, and linger around,

Till the day when their bodies shall leave the

ground.

THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER

AND VENUS.

I WOULD not always reason. The straight

path

Wearies us with its never-varying lines,
And we grow melancholy. I would make
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness
Around me. She should be my counsellor,
But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs
Impulses from a deeper source than hers,

And there are motions, in the mind of man
That she must look upon with awe. I bow
Reverently to her dictates, but not less
Hold to the fair illusions of old time-
Illusions that shed brightness over life,
And glory over nature. Look, even now,
Where two bright planets in the twilight meet,
Upon the saffron heaven,—the imperial star
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn
Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe,
Awhile, that they are met for ends of good,
Amid the evening glory, to confer

Of men and their affairs, and to shed down
Kind influence. Lo! they brighten as we gaze,
And shake out softer fires! The great earth
feels

The gladness and the quiet of the time.
Meekly the mighty river, that infolds

This mighty city, smooths his front, and far

Glitters and burns even to the rocky base

Of the dark heights that bound him to the

west;

And a deep murmur from the many streets,

Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence

Dark and sad thoughts awhile-there's time for

them

Hereafter on the morrow we will meet,
With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs,
And make each other wretched; this calm hour,
This balmy, blessed evening, we will give
To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days,
Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared

The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. The dog-star shall shine harmless: genial days Shall softly glide away into the keen

And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears