English

I.

Sweet is the evening twilight; but, alas!
There's sadness in it: day's light tasks are done;
And leisure sighs to think how soon must pass
Those tints that melt o'er heaven, O setting Sun!

And look like heaven dissolved. A tender flush
Of blended rose and purple light o'er all
The luscious landscape spreads, — like pleasure's blush, —
And glows o'er wave, sky, flower, and palm-tree tall.

II.

I.

How beauteous art thou, O thou morning Sun!
The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires
As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done,
As when he moved exulting in youth's fires.

II.

The infant strains his little arms to catch
The rays that glance about his silken hair;
And Luxury hangs her amber lamps to match
Thy face when turned away from bower and palace fair.

III.

BOOK III

L OVE'S history, as Life's, is ended not
By marriage: though the ignorant Paradise
May then be lost, the world of knowledge waits,
With ample opportunities, to mould
Young Eve and Adam into wife and man.
Some grace of sentiment expires, yet here
The nobler poetry of life begins:
The squire is knight, the novice takes the vow,
Old service falls, new powers and duties join,
And that high Beauty, which is crown of all,
No more a lightsome maid, with tresses free

BOOK II

L ARS lived, because the life within his frame
Refused to leave it; but his heart was dead,
He thought, for nothing moved him any more.
He spake not Brita's name, and every path
Where he had scattered fancies of the maid
Like seeds of flowers, but whence, instead, had grown
Malignant briers, to clog and tear his feet,
Was hated now: so, all that once seemed life,
So bright with power and purpose, rich in chance,
And dropping rest from every cloud of toil,
Became a weariness of empty days.

On curtained eyes, and bosoms warm with rest,
On slackened fingers and unburdened feet,
On limbs securer slumber held from toil,
While nimble spirits of the busy blood
Renewed their suppleness, yet filled the trance
With something happy which was less than dream,
The sun of Sabbath rose. Two hours, afar,
Behind the wintry peaks of Justedal,
Unmarked, he climbed; then, pausing on the crest
Of Fille Fell, he gathered up his beams
Dissolved in warmer blue, and showered them down
Between the mountains, through the falling vale,

THROUGH many years my heart goes back,
Through checkered years of loss and gain,
To that fair landmark on its track,
When first, beside the Merrimack,
Upon thy cottage roof I heard the autumn rain.

A hand that welcomed and that cheered
To one unknown didst thou extend;
Thou gavest hope to Song that feared;
But now, by Time and Faith endeared,
I claim the sacred right to call the Poet, Friend!

However Life the stream may stain,

Oh, Home — restful home! theme of praise and of song!
Where the heart has its refuge, unfailing and strong:
Where the cares of the world sign a partial release,
And the soul can lie down to a sweet sleep of peace!
The mine whence we dig out affection's pure gold.
The fire where we warm our poor hearts when they're cold!
The grand, tender chorus, by love's fingers stirred,
Where all the sweet tones of the soul-life are heard!

But he who in thy praises was sweetest and best —
Who wrote that great song full of soothing and rest —

Go set the table, Mary, an' let the cloth be white:
The hungry city children are comin' here to-night:
The children from the city, with features pinched an spare,
Are comin' here to get a breath of God's untainted air.

They come from out the dungeons where they with want were chained;
From places dark an' dismal, by tears of sorrow stained;
From where a thousand shadows are murdering all the light:
Set well the table, Mary dear, an let the cloth be white!

They ha not seen the daisies made for the heart's behoof;

Back to the old, old homestead! — isn't it queer!
But stranger things than that have happened here:
The old farm, alter giving oil by stream
(Until the world itself would almost seem
About to lose its progress smooth and true,
And creak upon its axis, first we knew),
Closed business in the twinkling of an eye,
And every blessed well we had went dry!
Then all the oil-springs that my neighbors had
The example followed — be it good or bad;
And the whole region round here, high and low,
So full of wealth a few short months ago —

Sweet virtue, virtue, virtue! — what a start
You've got here in this city's feverish heart!
There isn't a thing to do that's square and right,
But some one's here to teach it, day and night;
No soothing balm soul may from soul demand,
But some one has it ready to his hand!

And then the churches — thick and rich of yield,
As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field,
Where any one the golden fruit can find
All ready cooked to suit his heart and mind;
Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease,