We have struggled up the hill-side,
We stand upon its brow, —
O, lovely as a dream of heaven,
The scene before us now!

There singeth past the woodlands,
Where the listening aspens quiver,
There shineth through the meadows,
The beautiful, bright river.

And, farther off, old Ocean
Is lying at his rest,
With the warm and gentle sunlight
Asleep upon his breast.

But low down in the village
Is a cottage, white and small,
And to me that cottage seemeth
More glorious than all!

From out its portal floweth

In Paris, as in London,
Vice thrives, and virtue's undone;
Errors, passions, want of truth,
Folly, in age as well as youth,
Are things by no means rare:

But honest usurers, friends sincere,
And judges with their conscience clear,
C'est qu'on ne voit guere.

II.

In Paris all things vary,
Sixteen and sixty marry;
Men presuming on their purse,
Heirs with their estates at nusie,
Are things by no means rare:
But doctors who refuse a fee,

The pulse of the year beat low, throbbed low,
The winds went drearily sighing;
For wrapped in their shrouds of snow, white snow,
The last of fall flowers were lying.

I heard the north storm come down, come down,
From its farthest icy dwelling,
Through leafless forests all brown, all brown,
The doom of the old year knelling.

But when the light of thy smile, sweet smile,
Was shed on the lone chance-comer,
He dreamed a fair dream awhile, awhile,
Of beauty and love and summer.

When the long shadows on my path are lying,
Will those I love be gathered at my side;
Clustered around my couch of pain, and trying
To light the dark way, trod without a guide?

Shall it be mine, beyond the tossing billow,
Neath foreign skies, to feel the approach of death,
Will stranger hands smooth down my dying pillow,
And watch with kindly heart my failing breath?

Or shall, perchance, the little stars be shining
On some lone spot, where, far from home and friends,
The way-worn pilgrim on the turf reclining,

I gazed forth from my wintry tent
Upon the star-gemmed firmament;
I heard the far-off sentry's tramp
Around our mountain-girdled camp
And saw the ghostly tents uprise
Like specters 'neath the jeweled skies.
And thus upon the snow-clad scene,
So pure and spotless and serene,
Where locked in sleep ten thousand lay
Awaiting morn's returning ray, —
I gazed, till to the sun the drums
Rolled at the dawn, " He comes, he comes. "

A legend has told us that Cupid and Death
Were driven by stress of the weather,
To an inn where they reveled in mischief and fun,
And cracked a full bumper together.
But Cupid, the rogue, with the arrows of Death.
A bunch from his own quiver mingled;
Thus oft an old swain is smitten by love,
Whom Death for a victim has singled.

INTENDED FOR THE QOAKER.

Thou man of firmness turn this way,
Nor time by absence measure,
The sportive dance, the sprightly lay
Shall wake thee into pleasure:
Spite of thy formal outward man,
Thou'rt gay, as we shall prove thee;
Then cheer thee, laugh away thy span,
And let the spirit move thee.

II.

None are more just, more true, more fair,
More upright in their dealings,

The morning brightness showereth down from heaven;
The morning freshness goeth up from earth;
The morning gladness shineth everywhere!
Soon as the sun, in glorious panoply,
Parting the crimson curtains of his tent,
Begins the day's proud march, the voice of song
And flush of beauty live along his way!
The maiden flowers, whom all the dreamy night
The starlight vainly wooed, with wan, cold smile,
Blush as his presence breathes upon their bloom,
And feel his kiss through all their glowing veins,
And shake the night-dew from their joyous heads,

We, on the present hour relying,
Think not of future, nor of past,
But seize each moment as 'tis flying,
Perhaps the next may be our last.

Perhaps old Charon, at his wherry,
This moment waits to wast us o'er;
Then charge your glasses, and be merry,
For fear we ne'er should charge them more.

II.

With brow austere, and head reclining,
Let envy, age, and haggard care
Grow sour, and at our joy repining,

They say a tempest is abroad to-night;
They tell me of its fearful sights and sounds, —
Of driving rains, the rush and roar of winds,
The plunge of torrents o'er the mountain side,
The burst of thunder, and the lurid track
Of the quick lightning, leaping down the skies!

But deeper midnight and a colder gloom
Enwrap my life, — within my bosom reigns
A wilder, sterner strife, — while bows my head,
Bared to the peltings of a mightier storm!

The hour is nigh at hand, — the hour that oft