The courses of the stars; the very hour

He knows when they shall darken or grow bright;
Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love,
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife
With friends, or shame and general scorn of men-
Which who can bear?-or the fierce rack of pain,
Lie they within my path? Or shall the years
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace,
Into the stilly twilight of my age?

Or do the portals of another life

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength,
Impend around me? Oh! beyond that bourne,
In the vast cycle of being which begins

At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms
Shall the great law of change and progress clothe
Its workings? Gently-so have good men taught—
Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide
Into the new; the eternal flow of things,
Like a bright river of the fields of heaven,
Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.

THE PAINTED CUP.

THE fresh savannas of the Sangamon Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; The wanderers of the prairie know them well, And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and virgin solitude,

The faded fancies of an elder world;

But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,

To swell the reddening fruit that even now Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.

But thou art of a gayer fancy. WellLet then the gentle Manitou of flowers, Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, Though all his swarthy worshippers are goneSlender and small, his rounded cheek all brown And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, And part with little hands the spiky grass; And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew

A DREAM.

I HAD a dream

Said a dear voice at early light;
And even yet its shadows seem
To linger in my waking sight.

-a strange, wild dream—

Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew, And bright with morn, before me stood; And airs just wakened softly blew

On the young blossoms of the wood.

Birds sang within the sprouting shade,
Bees hummed amid the whispering grass,

And children prattled as they played

Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass.

Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown,
There played no children in the glen;
For some were gone, and some were grown
To blooming dames and bearded men.

'Twas noon, 'twas summer: I beheld
Woods darkening in the flush of day,
And that bright rivulet spread and swelled,
A mighty stream, with creek and bay.

And here was love, and there was strife,

And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries, And strong men, struggling as for life, With knotted limbs and angry eyes.

Now stooped the sun-the shades grew thin;

The rustling paths were piled with leaves; And sunburnt groups were gathering in,

From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves.

The river heaved with sullen sounds;

The chilly wind was sad with moans; Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds Grew thick with monumental stones.

Still waned the day; the wind that chased
The jagged clouds blew chillier yet;
The woods were stripped, the fields were waste,
The wintry sun was near its set.

And of the young, and strong, and fair,
A lonely remnant, gray and weak,