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"As sure as the roses shall blos-To-morrow has trouble to lend,—

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"As sure as the golden robin

Shall build her a swinging nest, And the captured sunbeam lie fastlocked

In the marigold's burning breast;

"As sure as the water-lilies Shall float like a fairy fleet;

An endless, endless store;

But I have as much as heart can

hold,

Why should I borrow more!

HELIOTROPE.

SWEETEST, Sweetest, Heliotrope!
In the sunset's dying splendor.
In the trance of twilight tender,
All my senses I surrender,

To the subtle spells that bind me:

As sure as the torrent shall leap the The dim air swimmeth in my sight

rocks

With foamy, fantastic feet;

"As sure as the bobolink's carol

And the plaint of the whippoorwill Shall gladden the morning, and sadden the night,

And the crickets pipe loud and shrill;

"So sure to the heart of the maiden Who hath loved and sorrowed long, Glad tidings shall bring the summer of joy

With bursting of blossom and song!"

A seer as well as a herald!

For while I sat weeping to-day, The tenderest, cheeriest letter came From Lionel far away.

Good news! O little bee-prophet,
Your words I will never forget!

It may be foolish,- that dear, old sign,

But Lionel's true to me yet!

With visions vague of soft delight; Shadowy hands with endless chain Of purple-clustered bloom enwind

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What enchantments weird possess

me,

Now uplift me, now oppress me?
Do I feast, or do I hunger?
Is it bliss, or is it anguish?

1s it Auster's treacherous breath Kissing me with honeyed death, While I sicken, droop, and languish ?

Still I feel my blood's dull beat
In my head and hands and feet;
Struggling faintly with thy sweet-

ness,

Heliotrope! Heliotrope!

Give me back my strength's com-
pleteness.

Must I pine and languish ever!
Wilt thou loose my senses never!
Wilt thou bloom and bloom for ever,

Oh, Lethean Heliotrope?

Ah, the night-wind, freshly blowing,
Sets the languid blood a-flowing!
I revive!-

I escape thy spells alive!

Flower! I love and do not love thee! Hold my breath, but bend above thee;

Crush thy buds, yet bid them ope; Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope!

DAY-DREAMING.

How better am I
Than a butterfly?

Here, as the noiseless hours go by,
Hour by hour,

I cling to my fancy's half-blown flower:

Over its sweetness I brood and brood, And scarcely stir, though sounds intrude

That would trouble and fret another mood

Less divine Than mine!

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And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

They looked at the squall, and they

looked at the shower,

DOLCINO TO MARGARET.

THE world goes up and the world goes down,

And the sunshine follows the rain;

And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown

Can never come over again,
Sweet wife;

No, never come over again.

For woman is warm, though man be cold,

And the night will hallow the

day;

Till the heart which at eve was weary and old

Can rise in the morning gay,
Sweet wife;

To its work in the morning gay.

SANDS OF dee.

And the night-rack came rolling "O MARY, go and call the cattle

up, ragged and brown.

But men must work and women must

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OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

OH! why should the spirit of mortal | And alike from the minds of the liv

be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fastflying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

As the young and the old, the low and the high,

Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.

The infant, a mother attended and loved,

The mother, that infant's affection who proved,

The father, that mother and infant who blest,

Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest.

The maid, on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, - her triumphs are by;

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INTO a ward of the whitewashed | Back from his beautiful, blue-veined

walls,

Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and

balls,

Somebody's darling was borne one day

Somebody's darling, so young, and so brave,

Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood's

grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, [brow; Kissing the snow of that fair young Pale are the lips of delicate mouldSomebody's darling is dying now.

brow,

Brush all the wandering waves of

gold,

Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take,

They were somebody's pride, you know:

Somebody's hand has rested there,Was it a mother's soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in those waves of light?

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