MONADNOC FROM AFAR.

DARK flower of Cheshire garden,
Red evening duly dyes

Thy sombre head with rosy hues
To fix far-gazing eyes.

Well the Planter knew how strongly
Works thy form on human thought;
I muse what secret purpose had he
To draw all fancies to this spot.

THE SOUTH WIND.

SUDDEN gusts came full of meaning,
All too much to him they said,
Oh, south winds have long memories,
Of that be none afraid.

I cannot tell rude listeners

Half the tell-tale south wind said, "T would bring the blushes of yon maples To a man and to a maid.

FAME.

Ан Fate, cannot a man

Be wise without a beard?

East, West, from Beer to Dan,
Say, was it never heard

That wisdom might in youth be gotten,
Or wit be ripe before 't was rotten?

He pays too high a price

For knowledge and for fame

Who sells his sinews to be wise,

His teeth and bones to buy a name,
And crawls through life a paralytic
To earn the praise of bard and critic.

Were it not better done,

To dine and sleep through forty years; Be loved by few; be feared by none; Laugh life away; have wine for tears; And take the mortal leap undaunted, Content that all we asked was granted?

But Fate will not permit

The seed of gods to die,

Nor suffer sense to win from wit

Its guerdon in the sky,

Nor let us hide, whate'er our pleasure, The world's light underneath a measure.

Go then, sad youth, and shine;

Go, sacrifice to Fame;

1824.

Put youth, joy, health, upon the shrine,
And life to fan the flame;
Being for Seeming bravely barter,
And die to Fame a happy martyr.

WEBSTER.

FROM THE PHI BETA KAPPA POEM, 1834.

ILL fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave
For living brows; il fits them to receive:
And yet, if virtue abrogate the law,

One portrait, fact or fancy—we may draw;
A form which Nature cast in the heroic mould
Of them who rescued liberty of old;

He, when the rising storm of party roared,
Brought his great forehead to the council board,
There, while hot heads perplexed with fears the state,
Calm as the morn the manly patriot sate;
Seemed, when at last his clarion accents broke,
As if the conscience of the country spoke.
Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood,
Than he to common sense and common good:
No mimic; from his breast his counsel drew,
Believed the eloquent was aye the true;

He bridged the gulf from th' alway good and wise
To that within the vision of small eyes.

Self-centred; when he launched the genuine word
It shook or captivated all who heard,

Ran from his mouth to mountains and the sea,
And burned in noble hearts proverb and prophecy.

In my coat I bore this book,

And seldom therein could I look,
For I had too much to think,
Heaven and earth to eat and drink.
Is he hapless who can spare

In his plenty things so rare?

THE ENCHANTER.

IN the deep heart of man a poet dwells
Who all the day of life his summer story tells:
Scatters on every eye dust of his spells,

Scent, form and color: to the flowers and shells
Wins the believing child with wondrous tales;
Touches a cheek with colors of romance,

And crowds a history into a glance;

Gives beauty to the lake and fountain,

Spies over-sea the fires of the mountain;

When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he that sings,
And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.
The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart
Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart;
Opens the eye to Virtue's starlike meed
And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.

PHILOSOPHER.

PHILOSOPHERS are lined with eyes within,
And, being so, the sage unmakes the man.
In love, he cannot therefore cease his trade;
Scarce the first blush has overspread his cheek,
He feels it, introverts his learned eye

To catch the unconscious heart in the very act.
His mother died, the only friend he had, -
Some tears escaped, but his philosophy
Couched like a cat sat watching close behind
And throttled all his passion. Is't not like
That devil-spider that devours her mate
Scarce freed from her embraces?

LIMITS.

WHо knows this or that?

Hark in the wall to the rat:

Since the world was, he has gnawed;

Of his wisdom, of his fraud

What dost thou know?

In the wretched little beast

Is life and heart,

Child and parent,

Not without relation

To fruitful field and sun and moon.
What art thou? His wicked eye
Is cruel to thy cruelty.