Aye, leaves there her sackcloth and shuts to the door; She puts on the mask for the frivolous world Her frail barque is launched ’mid its tumult and roar— Unhelmed, thro’ its mammon-cut channels ’tis hurled. The laugh, the world echoes, grows empty and hard When the jingle of gold is the mirth-stirring power; The soul is, by Avarice, shrivelled and scarred When it barters for pottage, a heavenly dower. God fits us, thro’ suffering, for Sympathy’s needs; ’Tis warring with wrong that will win for the Right; Oft Sorrow’s lone path, to His ripe vineyard, leads— Christ gave us, through Gethsame, heavenly light. Go work in His vineyard wherever ’tis needed And earnestly work for the sake of the need; Be Fame’s fickle promise forever unheeded, Unknown, in thy labor, the miser’s low greed. Night. Thro’ azure paths fair Venus comes with golden bars To close the gates of Day. The twilight’s dusky stole Is lightly spangled o’er with heaven’s brightest stars; Soon Night will bring her countless ones whose ceaseless roll Thro’ boundless depths of space, repeat creation’s song. Thus canopied by God’s omnipotence, outspread, The earth doth lull and soothe her surging, restless throng With brooding calm. Sleep’s poppied sweets for toil are shed. When strife is hushed to rest, by Nature’s drowsy hum And barter’s dins are stilled—its flaunting ensigns furled, When, drugged with Somnus’ wines, earth’s noisy crowds are dumb And stillness spreads her slumber-robe, so softly o’er the world, ’Tis joy to watch Night’s queenly orb, climb up the eastern stair, And pour her flood of silver light o’er hills and bowers, That in the sacred silence gleam, so radiant and fair, In glistening robes of green and dewy, fragrant flowers. All hail, blest hour of cool repose, when Labor’s chains That bind the mind, thro’ all the day, to weary tasks Are loosed! Ay, now, the soul, in freedom from their pains, May drink from founts of pure supernal joy. It basks In glories which the night o’er earth and sky hath strown. Compassion sweet, the dewy coolness doth impart And dreamy perfumes, by the balmy breezes blown, Are evening’s sweet acopic, when she folds us to her heart. Disappointment. We plant sometimes a tender flower— Watch and wait through sun and shower; Mark its tiny leaflets, green, Then, the upward shoot between,— Springing, springing, tendrils clinging, Hopes like cherubs round it winging Whispering of the blooming time. Watch the buds burst thro’ their sheathing, Beauty’s promise, round them wreathing, Dream of fragrance they enfold, Lovely blooms, almost, behold, Reach an eager hand for grasping— Find the tendrils all unclasping— Withered, ere the blooming time. Love’s Ideal.