Where rustling palms nod to the welcome wind-- While with the sun of our own minds we shine On planetary minds, and light, and cheer, And lead then to a loftier, brighter end. All this is well: So let the creature’s wish Circle its scanty orbit round and round With borrowed light from the Creator’s will.” Then I again:--“We are but merest drops That swell a deathward torrent, or as grains Of sand, which make up a conglobéd sphere, And he that is fore’er undoes the work Of him that has been, through the whirl of time. What profits it to weave a golden web Which all our heirs may rend above our grave! To pile our treasuries with yellow dust That every reckless future wind may blow! To think to be unthought in coming years! To write to be the jest of fresher times! All this is emptiness! I wish the end.” What he had said I know not, for the wind, Which had blown fitful since the red sun sunk, Came in fierce gusts against the window now-- Bringing large drops that pattered chill and loud. Then our talk changed to what might be afar-- To the rude ocean, and the mariners Driven by windy war on unknown coasts, To sin and sorrow in this poor, poor world, And all those dreary themes akin to tears. So mused we in the dusk a gentle space, A cloudy dreamer I--my friend, that trod The green hills of his own complacency Like any king. * * * * * =MONDE HEDELQUIVER.= =A TALE OF WINTER-LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND.= =BY THE AUTHOR OF “SUSY L----’S DIARY.”= CHAPTER I. ROSAMONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERS. _Danville, December 2, 1851._