cal wiles:
His sweet iterations pall not on her ear,--
"_I love you--I love you!_"--she never can hear
That cadence too often; its musical roll
Wakes ever an echoed reply in her soul.

--Do visions of trial, of warning, of woe,
Loom dark in the future of doubt? Do they know
They are hiving, of honied remembrance, a store
To live on, when summer and sunshine are o'er?
Do they feel that their island of beauty at last
Must be rent by the tempest,--be swept by the blast?
Do they dream that afar, on the wild, wintry main,
Their love-freighted bark must be driven again?

--Bless God for the wisdom that curtains so tight
To-morrow's enjoyments or griefs from our sight!
Bless God for the ignorance, darkness and doubt,
That girdle so kindly our future about!

The crutches are brought, and the invalid's strength
Is able to measure the lawn's gravel'd length;
And under the beeches, once more he reclines,
And hears the wind plaintively moan through the pines;
His children around him, with frolic and play,
Cheat autumn's mild listlessness out of the day;
And Alice, the sunshine all flecking her book,
Reads low to the chime of the murmuring brook.

But the world's rushing tide washes up to his feet,
And leaps the soft barriers that bound his retreat;
The tumult of camps surges out on the breeze,
And ever seems mocking his Capuan ease.
He dare not be happy, or tranquil, or blest,
While his soil by the feet of invaders is prest:
What brooks it though still he be pale as a ghost?
--If he languish or fail, let him fail at his post.

The gums by the brook-side are crimson and brown;
The leaves of the ash flicker goldenly down;
The roses that trellis the porches, have lost
Their brightness and bloom at the touch of the frost;
The ozier-twined seat by the beeches, no more
Looks tempting, and cheerful, and sweet, as of yore;
The water glides darkly and mournfully on,
As Alice sits watching it:--Douglass has gone!

IV.

"I am weary and worn,--I am hungry and chill,
And cuttingly strikes the keen blast o'er the hill;
All day I have ridden through snow and through sleet,
With nothing,--not even a cracker to eat;
But now, as I rest by the bivouac fire,
Whose blaze leaps up merrily, higher and higher,
Impatient as Roland, who neighs t