By the rolling waves I roam,
And look along the sea,
And dream of the day and the gleaming sail,
That bore my love from me.

His bark now sails the Indian seas,
Far down the summer zone:
But his thoughts, like swallows, fly to me
By the Northern waves alone.

Nor will he delay, when winds are fair,
To waft him back to me;
But haste, my love! or my grave will be made
By the sad and moaning sea!

WHEAT AND SHEAVES.

Before me now the village stands,
Its cottages embowered in bloom;
Behind me lies the burying ground,
Its sepulchres in cypress gloom.

The bells before me ring aloud,
A paean for the live and bold;
The bells behind are tolling low,
A requiem for the dead and cold.

The crowd before me tramp away,
And shout until the winds are stirred;
The crowd behind no longer move,
And never breathe a single word.

Before me many moan, and weep:
Behind, there is not one who grieves;
For blight but wastes the standing wheat.
It cannot touch the garnered sheaves!

FRAGMENT.

The gray old Earth goes on
At its ancient pace,
Lifting its thunder voice
In the choir of Space;
And the Years, as they go,
Are singing slow,
Solemn dirges, full of woe!

Tears are shed, and hearts are broken,
And many bitter words are spoken,
And many left unsaid;
And many are with the living,
That were better--better dead!

Tyrants sit upon their thrones,
And will not hear the people's moans,
Nor hear their clanking chains;
Or if they do, they add thereto,
And mock, not ease, their pains;
But little liberty remains--
There is but little room for thee,
In this wide world, O Liberty!
But where thou hast once set thy foot,
Thou wilt remain, though oft unseen;
And grow like thought, and move like wind,
Upon the troubled sea of Mind,
No longer now serene.
Thy life and strength thou dost retain,
Despite the cell, the rack, the pain,
And all the battles won--in vain!
And even now thou seest the hour
That lays in dust the tyrant's power,
When man shall once again be free,
And Earth renewed, and young like thee,
O Liberty! O Liberty!

CERTAIN MERRY STANZAS.

I often wish that I could know
The life in store for me,
The measure of the joy and woe
Of my futurity.
I do not fear to meet the worst
The gathering years can give;
My