All these, and one more gift is mine That stirs with joy my brooding thought— A friendship rare and true as thine, A chain—all precious links—inwrought With sacred trust. Oh hush, my heart, No more in bitterness complain: Thou wouldst not with thy treasures part Youth’s wildest dream of power to gain. Hill-Crest Home. TO MRS. A. FOSKETT POTTER. The picture, you rave over there on the wall, Is weak by the one hung in memory’s hall. While that one is held by the fetters of art To rules of perspective—can only give part, The other has range over hill-top and dell, From the vaulted blue sky to the depths of the well— Can even give sense of refreshing from this— Show stars gleaming thro’ from its seeming abyss. It has other delights, never reached with a brush, The ravishment held in the notes of a thrush (The sweetest voiced bird of the singing-bird throng) Reverberant groves all a-thrill with its song. Then the river, that knit a bright edge on the farm, Enmantled with vapor—etherial charm! As if dawn and the dew, meeting, playfully kissed When the sun peeping over dissolved them in mist; Like a gauzy, white chrisom cloth lightly it lies O’er the rosy-faced morning, new-born of the skies. Now, mellow and sweet as the music of dream, Or a softly touched lute, comes the song of the stream; Enchanted I listen, ay, listen and gaze Till sound seems enwreathed with this luminous haze That’s woven for nymphs, of the sunshine and spray; And veiled in these light robes they mingle in play Till on bloom scented breezes they’re floated away.