The sun, in whose glory

Thou wast born in the sky, Hath gone in the west,

And left thee to die.

But hung in the rain-drops
I'll see thee again,

When the sunset smiles out

On the clouds and the rain!

Night and the Soul.

I WENT to bed with Shakspeare's flowing numbers
Within me chiming,

As I sank slowly to my pleasant slumbers,
My thoughts with his were rhyming.

Out of the window I saw the moonlight shadows
Go creeping slow;

The sheeted roofs of snow,-the broad white meadows
Lay silently below.

A few keen stars were kindly winking through
The frost-dimmed panes,

And dreaming Chanticleer woke up and crew
Far o'er the desolate plains.

But soon into the void abyss of sleep
My mind did swoon;

I saw no more the broad house-shadows creep
Beneath the silent moon.

I woke; the morning sun was mounting slowly
O'er the live earth :-

Say, fancy, why the shade of melancholy
Which then in me took birth?

Why does the night give to the spirit wings,
Which day denies ?

Ah, why this tyranny of outward things
When brightest shine the skies?

My soul is like the flower that blooms by night,
And droops by day;

Yet may its fruit expand, though in the light
Night-blossoms drop away.

The visions thus in dreamy stillness cherished,
Like dreams may fly;

But day's great acts, o'er thoughts that nightly perished,
May ripen, not to die.

Jan. 2d, 1839.

The Poet.

Non est ad astra mollis è terris via.-SENECA.

He that would earn the Poet's sacred name, Must write for future as for present ages; Must learn to scorn the wreath of vulgar fame, And bear to see cold critics o'er the pages His burning brain hath wrought, wreak wantonly Their dull and crabbed spite, or trifling mockery.

He must not fret his heart that men will turn
From the deep wealth his soul hath freely given;
He must not marvel that their spirits burn

With fire so dim and cold. The God of Heaven
Who hung the golden stars in loftiest sky,
Hath o'er all spirits set the Poet's heart on high.

Star-like and high, his task and glorious sphere

Is to shine on in love and light unborrowed, Yet looking down, to hold all nature dear,

And where a heart hath deeply joyed or sorrowed, To gather to itself all images

Of mind, and heart and passion, and to breathe life through these:

And in this life burning through all his words,
And glancing back so strangely on man's soul
The image of himself, the bard records.

The power which lifts all nature, till the whole Swims in the spirit of beauty, and the breath Of earthly things is murmuring life untouched by death.

Thus hovering, bee-winged, over every flower,

And gathering all the nectar from its bosom, And e'en midst broken hearts, in grief's dark hour, Stealing a sweetness from the poison blossom,

He garners up the honey of his thought,

And yields unto the world whate'er his soul hath wrought.

His is the task to clothe the dull and common
In the rich garb of ever-living youth;
And o'er the soul of child, or man, or woman,
And o'er the countenance of daily truth,

And o'er Creation's face to spread the light
Of beauty, as it shines in God's eternal sight.

He may not stoop to pander to the herd
Of fickle tastes and morbid appetites;

He hath upon his lips a holy word,

And he must heed not if it cheers or blights,

So it be Truth, and the deep earnest fire

Of no dull earthward thought, nor any base desire.

His path is through all nature like the sun;
From world to world, like a recording spirit;