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Dies Non.

THE brooding halcyon hour is here at last;
The world's tumultuous wrong has taken flight
With that dark ocean mood, which yesternight
Did battle with the blast.

Heaven smiles to see its beauty in the bay;

Care lies a-drowning where the blue tide laves
The rust-red weed, and frolic of light waves
Laughs heaviness away.

Fresh from the ripple's delicate caress,

I lean upon the bosom of a rock,

That basks with me, forgetful of the shock
Of storms, the sea's distress;

And listening, while the slow wave-crests unroll
Their splendour, to the sea-mew's lonely cry,
Sweet echoes of a sister melody
Waken along my soul.

Once more I seem to hear the wood-dove croon
In secret covert consecrate to spring,
The whisper of the forest's half-fledged wing
Fanning the flush of noon;

The long sea-murmur sweeping o'er a main

Of billowy brake and glade, where sunshine dyes
With touches of her tenderest harmonies

The tree-tops' purple plain;

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And once more through the oak-grove's hoary screen, Beyond the faded fern, are caught afar

Glimpses of larchwood where the wind-flowers

star

The thicket's early green.

Again I seek the time-worn stones that pent

A garden once, deep-sheltered from mankind,
Now haunted only by the homeless wind
And memory's low lament;

And musing watch the kestrel o'er his bower
Hover, with kingly pinions scarce astir,
The butterfly, spring's motley harbinger,
Sway on the sun-kissed flower;

Or mark the slender shadows rise and fall

Where in their silken cradles beech-leaves dream
Of summer's bridal, and the soft sunbeam
Sleeps on the windless wall,

And warms to life the old romance that strays
Forgotten where the rose-leaves mouldering lie,
And weds it with the gracious luxury

That decks these fuller days.

The nestling grange that seems a friendlier part
Of Nature's self, in outward guise akin
To some moss-suited crag, and clothed within
By Nature's consort, Art;

There Welcome waits beside the ruddy glow
That flecks the roof and laughs along the floor,
There Farewell passeth through the crowded door
With lingering steps and slow;

There, ranged in carven shrines, rich caskets keep
The embalmèd wisdom of the deathless dead,
And music summons pity, love and dread
From out the spirit's deep;

Or while the wine-cup sparkles, thought's free tide
Flows eddying onward, limped, smooth, profound,
Or leaping from the heights with sudden bound
Laugheth where shallows glide.

Care vexeth not, nor calumny molests

The quiet of that home; but settled soft
O'er roof and lawn, o'er bower and stream and
croft,

A mellow gladness rests.

The squirrel on the daisy-freckled grass
Sports unafraid; the poet's daffodil
Stoopeth to kiss his semblance in the rill;
And when spring's love-dreams pass,

Roses shall queen it, making every breath

A pant of joy; the peach shall sun her cheek
When bird-songs tire and hues of evening streak
The creeper's beauteous death.

Nor is the scene less fair when dead leaves lie
Thick in the pool's clear bosom, and the pines
Darken, and o'er the sodden meadows shines
A blue November sky;

Or when the bare boughs' livelier tints are lost
In black against the snow, and from the eaves
Hang ice-spears, and the holly's trim-cut leaves
Are edged and spiked with frost.

Ah! genial home! where every season lends
Fresh grace, where hospitality's glad rites
Bless, and the loving-cup of deep delights
Circles among close friends.

There youth might twine the laurel and the rose,
Manhood forget the world, and old age lull
The soul to slumber, calm and beautiful
As autumn's rich repose;

But that afar, where smothered with a pall
Of vapour the great cities sweat and groan,
From misery's dull heart a weary moan
Ascendeth, marring all.

Undergrowth.

OH, Earth, whose wings are full of eyes,
The waiting eyes of bird and beast,
All questioning if man more wise,—

Of man! who understands the least,
Down looking through their dumb surmise,
How came his light to be increased?—

Beneath the shadow of thy wings,

Would I might bring my brain to rest;
And come thereby on stealthier springs
Of insect-wisdom, working best
Free from this outward sight of things,
These troubled glimpses of our quest.

Or, out of reach of grief or mirth,

Below the sense of light or sound,
Where-rooted lovers of the earth,

And nearer nestlings of the ground
Than bird or beast-sealed looks man least
May look into-soft eyes lie bound.

The garden eyes, the woodland eyes,
Green-cradled, dewy-fresh from birth,
At sight whereof an old surmise

Questions what view they take of earth:
And a familiar pain replies,-

Nay, what can such blind looks be worth?

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