Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave-
Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry;

O! be it never heard again.

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weapon'd throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The hissing, sturging bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again : The eternal years of GoD are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who help'd thee flee in fear Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,

Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove,
The wither'd leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown,
And from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow,
Through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,
That lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs,

A beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves;
The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds,

With the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie,

But the cold November rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth,

The lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet,

They perish'd long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died,

Amid the summer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod,

And the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook,
In autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven,
As falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone, From upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day,
As still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee
From out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light

The waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers

Whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood

And by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in

Her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up
And faded by my side;

In the cold, moist earth we laid her,
When the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely
Should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,

Should perish with the flowers.

TO THE PAST.

THOU unrelenting Past!

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn,

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom;
And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, manhood, age, that draws us to the ground, And last, man's life on earth,

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends-the good-the kind, Yielded to thee with tears

The venerable form-the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring

The lost ones back-yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring

Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
In vain-thy gates deny

All passage, save to those who hence depart;
Nor to the streaming eye

Thou givest them back-nor to the broken heart.
In thy abysses hide

Beauty and excellence unknown-to thee
Earth's wonder and her pride

Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea.