Thou walkest with a glory round thy brow,
Like Saints in pictures, — radiant in the blaze
And splendor of thy boyhood, mingling now
With the bold bearing of a man, that plays
In eyes which do with such sweet skill express
Thy soul's hereditary gentleness.
Thou art my friend's best friend; and higher praise
My heart hath none to give, nor thine to take;
So I have loved thee for my brother's sake.
But when thou talk'st of England's better days,
And from its secret place thy soul comes forth,
And sits upon thy lips as on a throne,

Over the land where the roses lie
Warm in the sunny gush;
Over the ocean where wave and sky
Melt in the morning flush;
Over prairie and dale and hill,
Meadow and mountain-side,
Cometh a murmur faint and shrill,
That stirs the blood with a mighty thrill,
Like the swell of a heaving tide.

It tells of a throne that is toppling down
With its weight of evil deeds,
Of a tyrant struggling to save his crown,
And a million widows' weeds.
Of a breath that has filled the peaceful world
With legions of armed men,

AN INDIAN LEGEND .

Lost in the forest — three maidens fair —
Lost in the wild woods, dark and deep —
Wandering hopelessly here and there,
Through tangled thickets where shadows sleep.
Is there no refuge? at last they cry —
Mercy or hope in the starlit sky?

They had come from far in that early day,
Ere the plough had opened this Northern land,

I.

The dew falls fast, and the night is dark,
And the trees stand silent in the park;
And winter passeth from bough to bough
With stealthy foot that none may know,
But little the old man thinks he weaves
His frosty kiss on the ivy leaves.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
And it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Old trees by night are like men in thought,
By poetry to silence wrought;
They stand so still and they look so wise,

Peace, beldam ugly! thou'lt not find
M'ears bottles for enchanted wind;
That breath of thine can only raise
New storms, and discompose the seas.
It may (assisted by the clatter)
A Pigmaean army scatter;
Or move, without the smallest stream,
Loretto's chapel once again,
And blow St. Goodrick, while he prays,
And knows not what it is he says,
And helps false Latin with a hem
From Finckly to Jerusalem;
Or in th' Pacific sea supply
The wind, that Nature doth deny.
What dost thou think, I can retain
All this and sprout it out again,

When men talk much to me of woods and hills,
How evening lights and star-embroidered skies
Go through them with mysterious sympathies,
How gushing cataracts and diving rills
Find way into their hearts, and Autumn pale,
And Spring ere sunny June hath raised her veil,
And Summer's breadth of shade, are full of thought —
Then I believe them not: they have but caught
A trick of words from some dear minstrel's verse.
The awful spirit of reserve, that dwells
In nature's forms and shadows, hides in cells,
The jealous hearts of bards, her treasures rare.

Ah, the anguish and the shame,
And the bitter throbs of blame,
And the grief that could but weep,
All are lulled by loving sleep.
Like a summer storm it passed,
Dew and starlight followed fast —
And she lifts her lids at last,
With a tender, growing gaze,
Half of softness, half amaze —
With a rapture, low and faint,
Like some long-tormented saint
Opening recovered eyes
On a Morn of Paradise.

ON READING HIS LINES ENTITLED " TEAMSTER JIM. "

You struck right at the moral, Bob, a shoulder-hitting blow,
And knocked the stuffin' squarely out of twaddlin' " 'Ostler Joe. "
You opened Truth's dividers wide, and drew a decent rim
Around ten thousand hearth-stones like that of " Teamster Jim. "

You got us all excited, Bob: we sat and braced our feet,
Just wondering what would happen next unto the great elite,
Who know the line exactly where people shouldn't gush,
And carry fans convenient in case they need to blush.

I.

Brother, brother! thou art gone, and I will not mourn thy going,
Though thou hast been unto me like a river in its flowing;
For many a fresh and manly thought, and many a glorious dream,
Like fruits and flowers of foreign lands, have flourished by the stream.
Yet, brother, it is well to part: a sunset in the sky
Sinks deepest in the heart when it is fading from the eye!

II.

The heart is never safe unless it trembles while it woos:
Man cannot love a treasure that he does not fear to lose.
In touch and look and earnest tone, and many a little way

Down to the wharves, as the sun goes down,
And the daylight's tumult and dust and din
Are dying away in the busy town,
I go to see if my ship comes in.

I gaze far over the quiet sea,
Rosy with sunset, like mellow wine,
Where ships, like lilies, lie tranquilly,
Many and fair,—but I see not mine.

I question the sailors every night
Who over the bulwarks idly lean,
Noting the sails as they come in sight,—
“Have you seen my beautiful ship come in?”

“Whence does she come?” they ask of me;