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TO ONE IN A DARKENED HOUSE.
O FRIEND, whose loss is mine in part,

Your grief is mine in part, although
I cannot measure in my heart

The immeasurable woe.
As, from a shining window cast,

The fireside's gleam abroad is known,
I knew the brightness that is passed-

Its inner warmth your own.
O vanished firelight !--dark, without,

The late illumined sphere of space;
The warmth within has died about

Your darkened heart and face.

If I could hide your gloom with light,

Or breathe you back the warmth of old ...
Oh vain! I stand in outer night,

And feel your inner cold !

AWAKE IN DARKNESS. MỌTHER, if I could cry from out the night

And you could come (Oh tearful memory!)

How softly close ! to soothe and comfort me,
As when a child awakened with affright,-
My lips again, as weak and helpless quite,

Would call you, call you, sharp and plaintively!...

Oh vain, vain, vain! Your face I could not see; Your voice no more would bring my darkness light. To this shut room, though I should wail and weep,

You would not come to speak one brooding word, And let its comfort warm me into sleep,

And leave me dreaming of its comfort heard : Though all the night to morn at last should creep,

My cry would fail, your answer be deferred.

SONNET-IN 1862.
STERN be the Pilot in the dreadful hour

When a great nation, like a ship at sea
With the wroth breakers whitening at her lee,
Feels her last shudder if her Helmsman cower ;
A godlike manhood be his mighty dower !

Such and so gifted, Lincoln, mayst thou be,

With thy high wisdom's low simplicity
And awful tenderness of voted power.
From our hot records then thy name shall stand
On Time's calm ledger out of passionate days-

With the pure debt of gratitude begun,
And only paid in never-ending praise-
One of the many of a mighty Land,

Made by God's providence the Anointed One.

THE UNBENDED BOW.
In some old realm, we read, when war had come,

The bended bow, a warlike sign, was sent
Across the land-a summoner fierce but dumb;

When peace returned, the bow was passed unbent.

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Oh sacred Land! not many years ago

(The symbol breathes its meaning evermore), Thy holy summons, came the bended bow

Thy fiery bearers moved from door to door.

Then sprang thy brave from threshold and from hearth;

Their angry footsteps sounded, moving far, As when an earthquake moves across the earth;

Shone on thy hills the flame-lit tents of war.

O tender wife, in all thy weakness stern

With the great purpose which thy husband drew ; O mother dreaming of thy son's return, Strong with the arm whose strength thy country

knew ;

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O maiden, proud to hold a hero's name

Close in thy prayerful silence, blameless : lo, Transfigured in the light of love and fame,

They come, the bearers of the unbended bow !

“The strife is hushed, O Land !"—this voice is plain

“The bow of Peace is borne from door to door : May thy dread power be never tried again ;

But let thine arrows shine for evermore."

AUTHOR UNKNOWN. [The following is a specimen of Negro Hymn-writing. It was in actual use, with musical accompaniment, among the slaves of the Southern States].

LITTLE CHILDREN, THEN WON'T YOU BE GLAD?

(ARKANSAS.) LITTLE children, then won't you be That you have been to heaven, an' you're gwine to go

again,
For to try on the long white robe ?

be glad,

King Jesus he was so strong, my Lord,

That he jarred down the walls of hell.

Don't

you

hear what de chariot say? De fore-wheels run by de grace ob God,

An' de hind-wheels dey run by faith.

Don't you 'member what you promise de Lord ?
You promise de Lord that you would feed his sheep:

An' gather his lambs so well.

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A bending staff I would not break
A careless simple bird, one day
A Christian ! going, gone !
A few frail summers had touched thee
A great year and place
A Lady asks the Minstrels rhyme
A little blind girl wandering
A lovely sky, a cloudless sun
A march in the ranks hard-pressed, and the road unknown
A sight in camp in the daybreak grey and dim
A silver javelin which the hills
A sound of tumult troubles all the air
A weary, wandering soul am I
A whisper woke the air
Aboard, at a ship's helm
Above the petty passions of the crowd
Above the sunken sun the clouds are fired
Absence from thee is something worse than death
All grim and soiled and brown with tan
Am I not all alone?- The world is still
An hour agone, and prostrate Nature lay
And I have said, and I say it ever
Another hand is beckoning us
As plains the homesick ocean-shell
As sunbeams stream through liberal space
As when the haze of some wan moonlight makes
At midnight, in his guarded tent
At midnight, in the month of June
At the last, tenderly
Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath
Beat! beat! drums !— Blow ! bugles ! blow!
Beloved ! amid the earnest woes
Bowing thyself in dust before a Book
Bright inspiration ! shadowing my heart
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
Burly dozing humble bee
By a route obscure and lonely

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Come, I will make the continent indissoluble
Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our

Pete :
Content, in purple lustre clad
Courage yet! my brother or my sister

:

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no death

Fair isle that from the fairest of all flowers
Farewell, dear child, my heart's too much content
Father of Lakes ! thy waters bend
Flood-tide below me! I watch you face to face :
For the Power to whom we bow
For this present, hard
For those who worship thee there

is
Four points divide the skies
From all the rest I single out you, having a message for y
From San Domingo's crowded wharf
Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling
Give me truths
Go forth in life, O friend! not seeking love
God! do not let my loved-one die
Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers
Gone in the flush of youth
Great peace in Europe! Order reigns

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Hail to the land whereon we tread
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands
He was a brick : let this be said
Hear the sledges with the bells
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarlèd pines
Here are the houses of the dead.

Here youth
Here is the place ; right over the hill
Himself it was who wrote
His falchion flashed along the Nile
How bright this weird autumnal eve
How soon, my dear, death inay my steps attend
I am the Muse who sung alway
I had been tossing through the restless night
I heard the train's shrill whistle call
I looked to find a man who walked with God
I saw a Sower walking slow
I sometimes sit beneath a tree
I stir the pulses of the mind
I stood at evening in the crimson air
I thought of thee- I thought of thee
I thought our love at full, but I did err
I tore this weed from the rank dark soil
I've greeted many a bonny bride
I was weary with the daylight
I wonder, darling, if there does not wear
In April's dim and showery nights

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