O, desert, Sahara!—Oh, waters of Marah! I tread the hot sands—press the fount with my lips— In sorrow, go roaming, thro’ the shadowy gloaming That falls, o’er a life, with love’s sun in eclipse. My Inkstand. This new one is thought both convenient and nice— The atmosphere forcing the ink to the brim; I question the worth of this modern device, For seldom great thoughts on the surface will swim, But something like whales, when they find themselves sought, Down, swiftly from sight, in the depths they will sink— At the bottom, the angled for ideas are caught, And only by multiplied thrusts in the ink. 1855. History of One Life. Its morning dawned thro’ penury’s narrow pane— A noon of wealth, with glory’s laurel crown— Human weakness—one mistake—a felon’s stain— The evening gloomed with all his fellow’s frown. Evening. Vermillion and gold In beauty unfold On the light, floating clouds of the West; The low, crooning sound Of all Nature around Is lulling the world into rest. Like a rover of Sin The zephyr steals in ’Mong roses and carnations rare— In ecstatic bliss Gives each one a kiss, Then scatters their sweets on the air. In the shadowy hush The linnet and thrush Have gone to their nests in the grove; The blue pimpernell To the lilly’s wee bell Is whispering his story of love. Blest hour of delight That verges the night, What beauties and glories are thine, When the great car of day With its din rolls away, And silence seems Presence divine. Now the sparkle of dew And the rich violet hue Of the fast purpling clouds of the West, Hint of time’s rapid flight And of life’s coming night That shall lull into heavenly rest. Rondeaux. A brilliant thought leaps out and glows, Or scatters fragrance like the rose, Nor needs an artizan’s design To plan and shape to make it shine,— Not all is brilliance in rondeaux. The labored effort plainly shows The mind has passed thro’ mighty throes To give the world, with stamp divine, A brilliant thought. The music wins which sweetly flows, Not that which falls like stunning blows, And ease and grace, with sense combine, To clothe with elegance the line, Where Genius gives, in verse or prose, A brilliant thought. Solace of the Flowers. Oft a deep, unspoken anguish In the secret soul is stirred, And the wounded heart, though yearning For a kindly, loving word, Opens not its sacred portal, For the arts of friendly healing— Only God is told the sorrow, Through a mute-lipped, sad appealing.