od keepeth for the blest,
This lovely peace doth seem;--
Perchance, my heart, He sent this gracious day,
That when the dark and cold,
Thy doubtful steps enfold,
Thou, may'st remember, and press on thy way,
Nor faint midway the gloom
That lies this side the tomb.

All, all in vain,
Sweet day, do I entreat
To stay thy winged feet;
The gloom, the cold, the pain,
Gather me back as thou dost pale and fade;
Yet in my heart I make
A chamber for thy sake,
And keep thy picture in warm color laid:--
Thy memory, happy day,
Thou can'st not take away.

HE AND SHE.

Under the pines sat a young man and maiden,
"Love," said he; "life is sweet, think'st thou not so?"
Sweet were her eyes, full of pictures of Aidenn,--
"Life?" said she; "love is sweet; no more I know."

Into the wide world the maid and her lover
Wandered by pathways that sundered them far;
From pine-groves to palm-groves, he flitted a rover,
She tended his roses, and watched for his star.

Oft he said softly, while melting eyes glistened,
"Sweet is my life, love, with you ever near:"
Morning and evening she waited and listened
For a voice and a foot-step that never came near.

Fainting at last, on her threshold she found him:
"Life is but ashes, and bitter," he sighed.
She, with her tender arms folded around him,
Whispered--"But love is still sweet;" and so died.

O WILD NOVEMBER WIND.

O wild November wind, blow back to me
The withered leaves, that drift adown the past;
Waft me some murmur of the summer sea,
On which youth's fairy fleet of dreams was cast;
Return to me the beautiful No More--
O wild November wind, restore, restore!

November wind, in what dim, loathsome cave,
Languish the tender-plumed gales of spring?
No more their dances dimple o'er the wave,
Nor freighted pinions song and perfume bring:
Those gales are dead--that dimpling sea is dark;
And cloudy ghosts clutch at each mist-like bark.

O wild, wild wind, where are the summer airs
That kissed the roses of the long-ago?
Taking them captive--swooned in blissful snares--
To let them perish. Now no roses blow
In the waste gardens thou art laying bare:
Where are my heart's bright roses, where, oh where?