THE LAND OF DREAMS.

There's freedom at thy gates and rest
For Earth's down-trodden and opprest,
A shelter for the hunted head,

For the starved laborer toil and bread.
Power, at thy bounds,

Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.

Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow
Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
Deep in the brightness of the skies
The thronging years in glory rise,
And, as they fleet,

Drop strength and riches at thy feet.

Thine eye, with every coming hour,
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower;
And when thy sisters, elder born,

Would brand thy name with words of scorn,
Before thine eye,

Upon their lips the taunt shall die.

215

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

A MIGHTY realm is the Land of Dreams,
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky,
And weltering oceans and trailing streams,
That gleam where the dusky valleys lie.

But over its shadowy border flow

Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born.

The souls of the happy dead repair,

From their bowers of light, to that bordering land,

And walk in the fainter glory there,

With the souls of the living hand in hand.

One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, From eyes that open on earth no more— One warning word from a voice once dear— How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er!

Far off from those hills that shine with day,
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales,
The Land of Dreams goes stretching away
To dimmer mountains and darker vales.

There lie the chambers of guilty delight,
There walk the spectres of guilty fear,
And soft low voices, that float through the night,
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear.

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower That freshens the blooms of early May!

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams,
And I know, by thy moving lips, that now
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams.

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet!
O keep where that beam of Paradise falls:
And only wander where thou mayst meet
The blessed ones from its shining walls!

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams,
With love and peace to this world of strife:
And the light which over that border streams
Shall lie on the path of thy daily life.

THE BURIAL OF LOVE.

217

THE BURIAL OF LOVE.

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,
Sat where a river rolled away,
With calm sad brows and raven hair,

And one was pale and both were fair.

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown.
Bring forest-blooms of name unknown;
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,
To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep,
And fold his hands in sign of rest,
His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And bluebirds in the misty spring
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.

Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around

His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss

His ready smile, his ready kiss,

The patter of his little feet,

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet;

And graver looks, serene and high,
A light of heaven in that young eye,
All these shall haunt us till the heart
Shall ache and ache-and tears will start.

The bow, the band shall fall to dust,
The shining arrows waste with rust,
And all of Love that earth can claim,
Be but a memory and a name.

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell
A prisoner in this narrow cell;
But he whom now we hide from men,
In the dark ground, shall live again :

Shall break these clods, a form of light,
With nobler mien and purer sight,
And in the eternal glory stand,

Highest and nearest God's right hand.

"THE MAY SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT.*

THE May sun sheds an amber light

On new-leaved woods and lawns between; But she who, with a smile more bright, Welcomed and watched the springing green,

Is in her grave,

Low in her grave.

The fair white blossoms of the wood
In groups beside the pathway stand;
But one, the gentle and the good,
Who cropped them with a fairer hand,

Is in her grave,

Low in her grave.

Upon the woodland's morning airs

The small birds' mingled notes are flung; But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs, Once bade me listen while they sung,

Is in her grave,
Low in her grave.

THE VOICE OF AUTUMN.

That music of the early year

Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; My heart aches when the flowers appear; For then I think of her who lies

Within her grave,

Low in her grave.

219

THE VOICE OF AUTUMN.

THERE comes, from yonder height,
A soft repining sound,

Where forest-leaves are bright,
And fall, like flakes of light,
To the ground.

It is the autumn breeze,
That, lightly floating on,
Just skims the weedy leas,
Just stirs the glowing trees,
And is gone.

He moans by sedgy brook,
And visits, with a sigh,

The last pale flowers that look,
From out their sunny nook,
At the sky.

O'er shouting children flies
That light October wind,
And, kissing cheeks and eyes,
He leaves their merry cries
Far behind,

And wanders on to make

That soft uneasy sound

By distant wood and lake,
Where distant fountains break
From the ground