All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground- to die.

Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see,―
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf,

That trembles in the moon's pale ray!

Its hold is frail, its date is brief;

Restless, and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade,

The winds bewail the leafless tree,

But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the

TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ?

Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe:

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,

Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;

To thee, the palm of scoffing, we ascribe,

Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule!

For such thou art by day - but all Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, night long

solemn, strain,

As if thou didst, in this thy moonlight song,

Like to the melancholy Jacques complain,

Musing on falsehood, folly, sin, and

wrong,

And sighing for thy motley coat again.

WHILST THEE I SEEK.

WHILST Thee I seek, protecting

Power!

Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the power of thought bestowed,

To Thee my thoughts would soar: Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed; That mercy I adore.

In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each blessing to my soul most dear,
Because conferred by Thee.

In every joy that crowns my days, In every pain I bear,

My steadfast heart shall know no fear;

That heart will rest on Thee.

SONNET TO HOPE.

On, ever skilled to wear the form we love,

To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,

Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove

The lasting sadness of an aching heart.

Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;

That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,

Shall soften or shall chase misfortune's gloom.

Or seek relief in prayer.

When gladness wings my favored hour,

Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower,

My soul shall meet Thy will.

My lifted eye, without a tear, The gathering storm shall see;

TO A CITY PIGEON.

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!

Thy daily visits have touched my love. I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,

And my joy is high

Why dost thou sit on the heated

eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet?

How canst thou bear

Thou alone of the feathered race Dost look unscared on the human face;

Thou alone, with a wing to flee, Dost love with man in his haunts to be;

And the "gentle dove"

Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird! Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!

Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild

In the prisoned thoughts of the city child;

And thy glossy wings

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years;

And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this,

And I half renew my prime.

In the midst of your merry ring:

can feel the thrill of the daring

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come.

And I shall be glad to go; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreari

ness

To see the young so gay.

ON THE Picture oF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY."

TIRED of play! tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day?

The birds are silent, and so is the bee;

From lovers warm and true

For her heart was cold to all but

gold,

And the rich came not to woo But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair

A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved
in air,

Her woman's heart gave way!But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven

By man is cursed alway!