A BALLAD,

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA .

When many hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.
Loose flowed her coal-black hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow:

Loud howls the stormy west,
Cold, cold is winter's blast:—
Haste then, O Donald, haste!
Haste to thy Flora!
Twice twelve long months are o'er

Touch not her lip!
It hides a sting
Whose poisoned tip
Will madness bring.
I of that sweetness once did taste
And captive still my manhood waste.

The flowers of the night are unfolding
at the hour when I think of my dear ones.
In and out among the viburnums
flit the butterflies of the night.

Long since now, the outcries ceased sounding:
alone there one house still is whispering.
Nests are slumbering under the winglets,
eyes are slumbering under their lids.

From wide open calyx is breathing
the odor of strawberries crimson.
Brightly burns a light in the room there.
Grass is growing over the ditch.

A bee, the late comer, is buzzing

I sat me down on the bench of weaving,
as long ago ... How many years past?
As long ago, she made place for me there
on the bench of weaving.

And not the sound of a word resounding;
only a smile with compassion filled.
The white hand leaves unguided the shuttle.

I weep, and say to her: However could I,
O my sweet life, be parted from thee?
She weeps, and answers, with silent gesture:
However couldst thou?

And with a sigh she draws to herself then
the enclosing frame of the silent comb.

How beautiful the sight
Of brethren, who agree
In friendship to unite,
And bands of charity!
'Tis like the precious ointment shed,
In sacred rite on Aaron's head.

'Tis like the dews, that fill
The cups of Hermon's flow'rs;
Or Zion's fruitful hill,
Bright with the drops of showr's, —
Where mingling odors breathe around,
And notes of grateful joy resound.

For there the Lord commands
Blessings, in boundless store;
From his unsparing hands —
E'en life for ever more:
Thrice happy they, who meet above,

Far out to east one streak of golden light
Shows where the lines of sea and heaven unite, —
White heaven shot through with film of flying cloud,
Gray sea the wind just flutters and makes bright,
And wakes to music neither low nor loud.

Two horns jut out, and join, and rim the bay,
Save where a snow-white strip of shingle may
Break through the bar, where, black can be,
Their steep and hollow rocks resound all day
The jarred susurrus of the tumbling sea.

Here on a sunny shelf, while hot the air

Cool, and palm-shaded from the torrid heat,
The young brown tenor puts his singing by,
And sets the twin pipe to his lips to try
Some air of bulrush-glooms where lovers meet;
O swart musician, time and fame are fleet,
Brief all delight, and youth's feet fain to fly!
Pipe on in peace! To-morrow must we die?
What matter, if our life to-day be sweet!
Soon, soon, the silver paper-reeds that sigh
Along the Sacred River will repeat
The echo of the dark-stoled bearers feet,
Who carry you, with wailing, where must lie

DEDICATION OF THE PHISFIELD CEMETERY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1850

Angel of Death! extend thy silent reign!
Stretch thy dark sceptre o'er this new domain!
No sable car along the winding road
Has borne to earth its unresisting load;
No sudden mound has risen yet to show
Where the pale slumberer folds his arms below;
No marble gleams to bid his memory live
In the brief lines that hurrying Time can give;
Yet, O Destroyer! from thy shrouded throne
Look on our gift; this realm is all thine own!

Fair is the scene; its sweetness oft beguiled

TO H AMO T HORNYCROFT

Far in the soft warm west
There lies an orchard-nest,
Where every spring the black-caps come
And build themselves a downy home.

The apple-boughs entwine,
And make a network fine
Through which the morning vapours pass
That rise from off the dewy grass.

And when the spring-warmth shoots
Along the apple roots,

The dream that we beheld will never more
On mortal wondering dazzled eyes descend.
The sea, less jewelled, will break along the shore:
Love's voice with music will less softly blend.

The rose will veil its splendour when we die.
" Something there was within its tender bloom "
Each loving heart may say, " which, living, I,
I only, saw, — that ceases at my tomb "

And woman? Did not one soul find her fair
Beyond all mortals who have lived and died?
Breathe all heaven's fragrance in her marvellous hair?