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TO MY SISTER:
WITH A COPY OF "SUPERNATURALISM OP NEW ENGLAND."
Dear Sister !—while the wise and sage
Should stoop to boyhood's folly;
Of clouded Melancholy.
Away with weary cares and themes !—
With wonders and romances!
Of wild and wizard fancies.
Lo! once again our feet we set
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,
By lonely brooks, whose waters fret
The roots of spectral beeches; Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er Home's white-washed wall and painted floor, And young eyes widening to the lore
Of faery-folks and witches.
Dear heart I—the legend is not vain
And death's funereal sadness,
AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 98
The clustering groups of happier days,
And, knowing how my life hath been
A weary work of tongue and pen,
A long, harsh strife, with strong-willed men,
Thou wilt not chide my turning,
For the sweet bells of Morning I
FROM "MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAI*"
Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers,
And Autumn, in his leafless bowers,
I said to Earth, so cold and gray,
M Not so," the Earth did seem to say,
I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams
And wait to hear the sound of streams
But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone,
Who standest blighted and forlorn,
No hope is thine of sunnier hours,
No Spring revive thy wasted flowers,
CALEF LN BOSTON, 1692.
In the solemn days of old,
Two men met in Boston town—
One a tradesman frank and bold,
Cried the last, in bitter tone—
Satan's hireling, thou hast sown
Spake the simple tradesman then—
All thou knowest of truth hath been
"Falsehoods which we spurn to-day
Let the dead boughs fall away,
"God is good and God is light,
Evil can but serve the right,
u Of your spectral puppet play
Come what will, I needs must say,
To Pius ix. 95
When the thought of man is free,
Error fears its lightest tones;
And the people took up stones.
In the ancient burying-ground,
Side by side the twain now lieOne with humble grassy mound, One with marbles pale and high.
But the Lord hath blest the seed
Which that tradesman scattered then.
And the preacher's spectral creed
Let us trust, to one is known
While the other's joys atone
TO PIUS IX.i°
The cannon's brazen lips are cold;
No red shell blazes down the air; And street and tower, and temple old,
Are silent as despair.
The Lombard stands no more at bay-
The ravens scattered by the day
Now, while the fratricides of France
Hider at Gaeta—seize thy chance!
Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt,
While Rome, with steel and fire begirt,
Her death-groans answered to thy prayer;
Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call; Thy lights, the burning villa's glare;
Thy beads, the shell and ball!
Let Austria clear thy way, with hands
And Naples, with his dastard bands
Home's lips are dumb; the orphan's wail,
Above the faithless Frenchman's hail,
Go, bind on Rome her cast-off weight,
Though woman's scorn and manhood's hat*
Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall,
Where, in thy stately Quirinal,
Let the world murmur; let its cry
Truth stands alone; thy coward lie
The cannon of St. Angelo,
And chanting priest and clanging bell, And beat of drum and bugle blow,
Shall greet thy coming well I