THE DOVE.

IF haply thou, O Desdemona Morn,

Shouldst call along the curving sphere, "Remain, Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!" With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain ;—

Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark,
'Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea,
And move the mighty woods through mailèd bark
Till mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree ;-

Or (grievous if that may be yea o'er-soon!),

If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet, Shouldst knock Death's door with mellow shocks of tune, Sad inquiry to make-When may we meet?

Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart!
Should chant grave unisons of grief and love;

Ye could not mourn with more melodious art
Than daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.

CHADD'S FOrd, PennsylVANIA, 1877.

5*

Some word whose worth my love's devoir might pay

Upon my Lady's natal day.

Then said my heart to me :

Learn from the rhyme that now shall come to thee What fits thy Love most lovingly.

This gift that learning shows;

For, as a rhyme unto its rhyme-twin goes,

I send a rose unto a Rose.

PHILADELPHIA, 1876.

ON HUNTINGDON'S "MIRANDA."

THE storm hath blown thee a lover, sweet,

And laid him kneeling at thy feet.
But,―guerdon rich for favor rare!
The wind hath all thy holy hair

To kiss and to sing through and to flare
Like torch-flames in the passionate air,
About thee, O Miranda.

Eyes in a blaze, eyes in a daze,
Bold with love, cold with amaze,
Chaste-thrilling eyes, fast-filling eyes
With daintiest tears of love's surprise,
Ye draw my soul unto your blue
As warm skies draw the exhaling dew,
Divine eyes of Miranda.

And if I were yon stolid stone,
Thy tender arm doth lean upon,

Thy touch would turn me to a heart,
And I would palpitate and start,
-Content, when thou wert gone, to be
A dumb rock by the lonesome sea

BALTIMORE, 1874.

Forever, O Miranda.

ODE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS
UNIVERSITY.

READ ON THE FOURTH COMMEMORATION DAY, FEBRUARY, 1880.

How tall among her sisters, and how fair,How grave beyond her youth, yet debonair As dawn, 'mid wrinkled Matres of old lands Our youngest Alma Mater modest stands! In four brief cycles round the punctual sun Has she, old Learning's latest daughter, won This grace, this stature, and this fruitful fame. Howbeit she was born

Unnoised as any stealing summer morn. From far the sages saw, from far they came And ministered to her,

Led by the soaring-genius'd Sylvester

That, earlier, loosed the knot great Newton tied,
And flung the door of Fame's locked temple wide.
As favorable fairies thronged of old and blessed
The cradled princess with their several best,
So, gifts and dowers meet

To lay at Wisdom's feet,

These liberal masters largely brought—

Dear diamonds of their long-compressèd thought, Rich stones from out the labyrinthine cave

Of research, pearls from Time's profoundest wave

And many a jewel brave, of brilliant ray,

Dug in the far obscure Cathay

Of meditation deep

With flowers, of such as keep

Their fragrant tissues and their heavenly hues
Fresh-bathed forever in eternal dews-

The violet with her low-drooped eye,

For learned modesty,―

The student snow-drop, that doth hang and pore
Upon the earth, like Science, evermore,

And underneath the clod doth grope and grope,—
The astronomer heliotrope,

That watches heaven with a constant eye,—

The daring crocus, unafraid to try

(When Nature calls) the February snows,

And patience' perfect rose.

Thus sped with helps of love and toil and thought,
Thus forwarded of faith, with hope thus fraught,
In four brief cycles round the stringent sun
This youngest sister hath her stature won.

Nay, why regard

The passing of the years? Nor made, nor marr'd,
By help or hindrance of slow Time was she :

O'er this fair growth Time had no mastery :

So quick she bloomed, she seemed to bloom at birth,

As Eve from Adam, or as he from earth.
Superb o'er slow increase of day on day,

Complete as Pallas she began her way;

Yet not from Jove's unwrinkled forehead sprung,
But long-time dreamed, and out of trouble wrung,
Fore-seen, wise-plann'd, pure child of thought and pain,
Leapt our Minerva from a mortal brain.

And here, O finer Pallas, long remain,

Sit on these Maryland hills, and fix thy reign,