The low moon quivers on the hyacinth sky,
And lays upon the ocean's glooming frown
Its frail caress; like silence tenderly
The shadow falls immeasurably down.
A smouldering flame perturbs the heaven's girth,
As might, in some great moment, silently,
A sudden vision of the tragic earth
Blazon the brows of God with mystery.
And thou shalt come as the great shadow falls,
Like the slow single star, and lay thy last
Ethereal kiss upon my tired eyes;
And I shall answer thee as one who calls
Through the dumb places of the haunted past,

When love in the faint heart trembles,
And the eyes with tears are wet,
Oh, tell me what resembles
Thee, young Regret?
Violets with dewdrops drooping;
Lilies o'erfull of gold,
Roses in June rains stooping,
That weep for the cold,
Are like thee, young Regret.

Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses!
But what, young Desire,
Like thee, when love discloses
Thy heart of fire?
The wild swan unreturning,
The eagle alone with the sun,
The long-winged storm-gulls burning
Seaward when day is done,
Are like thee, young Desire.

Only yesterday it was morning
And the spring put forth its leaves;
We have lived; and the summer is warning
Us to bring in our sheaves;
And to all of us comes one thought
As we look to the westering sun,—
How little of all we have wrought
Was by our own hands done.

We have sown the homelands over
With the ancient seed of the home;
Broad acres of wheat and of clover
Laugh again to the sun from the loam;
But our joy as we go reaping
In the green field and the gold
Is to find the new harvest keeping
The color and weight of the old.

As when the storm is gathering round him fast,
And night and cloud obscure the traveller's way,
Hope fondly looks for some unfading ray,
While star by star declines, the brightest last;
Thus, oh my country, while that starry host,
The jewels of thy glory disappear,
And night and tempest blacken round, and fear
Tells of a ruined land and freedom lost!
To him, high-priest of all that sacred band,—
To him, the guardian of his country's law,—
The wise, the firm, the pure, who ever saw
The danger, and upraised his sheltering hand,

There was profusion in the gift
Of beauty in her face,
And in her very form and air
An inexpressible grace.

Her rustling silk, moire-antique,
The daintless taste would please;
Her life in all appearances
Was opulence and ease.

It could be seen from head to foot,
And in her piercing eye,
That she had had advantage of
All that hard cash could buy.

But Oh! it was so sad to see,
That in her heart was pain,
That caste should force this Negro queen
To cold and proud disdain.

That one so beautiful as she,
Could any sphere adorn,

Not fair,—as men count beauty when they sing
Of her for whose fair face a nation died.
Only with eyes made clear by suffering
Thy purer loveliness may be descried;
From such thy patient features can not hide
The nobleness that gracious actions bring;
And hearts less heavy for thy ministering
Deem thee more fair than all the world beside.

Not wise,—as wisdom passeth in the schools,
Nor learned in the gay world's idle lore;
Unsatisfied to range life's shallow pools,
Nor scorning all the shelter of the shore,

I am alone in my banishment;
I cry to thee unhearken'd:
Like Adam from his Eden sent,
When he look'd where the gold gates darken'd.
Myself I discern in him return
And plead with a vain endeavour:
In vain he raves where the Angel waves
The flaming sword “Forever!”

And I must sow a homeless lea
With the sweat of toil & sorrow:
Nor in pale hope of joy for thee
One consolation borrow.
The Paradise in thy sweet eyes
Still faints with its anguish'd ‘never,’
To him who craves where the Angel waves
The flaming sword “Forever.”

When the mornings dankly fall
With a dim forethought of rain,
And the robins richly call
To their mates mercurial,
And the tree-boughs creak and strain
In the wind;
When the river's rough with foam,
And the new-made clearings smoke,
And the clouds that go and come
Shine and darken frolicsome,
And the frogs at evening croak
Undefined
Mysteries of monotone,
And by melting beds of snow
Wind-flowers blossom all alone;
Then I know
That the bitter winter's dead.
Over his head
The damp sod breaks so mellow,—

Headless , without an arm, a figure leans
By something vaguely Greek,—a fount, an urn;
Dim stairs climb past her where one's thoughts discern
A temple or a palace. Some great queen's
Daughter art thou? or humbly one of those
Who serve a queen? Is this the sacred thing
That holds thy child, thy husband, or thy king?
Or lightly-laughing water? No one knows.
A woman once, now merely womanhood,
In gentle pose of un-selfconscious dream
That consecrates all ministry of love.
Gone are thy temples and the gods thereof,
But through the ruin of centuries sublime

Old Cotton is king, boys—aha!
With his locks so fleecy and white!
He shines among kings like a star!
And his is the sceptre of right,
Boys, of right,
And his is the sceptre of right!

Old Cotton, the king, has no care,
No queen, and no heir to his throne,
No courtiers, his triumphs to share,
He rules his dominions alone,
Boys, alone!
He rules his dominions alone!

Old Cotton, the merry old boy!—
Like smoke from the pipe in his mouth
His years glide away in their joy,
At home, in the warm sunny south,
Boys, the south,