Silence and solitude may hint (Whose home is in yon piney wood) What I, though tableted, could never tell— The din which here befell, And striving of the multitude. The iron cones and spheres of death Set round me in their rust, These, too, if just, Shall speak with more than animated breath. Thou who beholdest, if thy thought, Not narrowed down to personal cheer, Take in the import of the quiet here— The after-quiet—the calm full fraught; Thou too wilt silent stand— Silent as I, and lonesome as the land. ON THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG CAVALRY OFFICER KILLED IN THE VALLEY OF VIRGINIA Beauty and youth, with manners sweet, and friends— Gold, yet a mind not unenriched had he Whom here low violets veil from eyes. But all these gifts transcended be: His happier fortune in this mound you see. A REQUIEM _For Soldiers lost in Ocean Transports_ When, after storms that woodlands rue, To valleys comes atoning dawn, The robins blithe their orchard-sports renew; And meadow-larks, no more withdrawn Caroling fly in the languid blue; The while, from many a hid recess, Alert to partake the blessedness, The pouring mites their airy dance pursue. So, after ocean’s ghastly gales, When laughing light of hoyden morning breaks, Every finny hider wakes— From vaults profound swims up with glittering scales; Through the delightsome sea he sails, With shoals of shining tiny things Frolic on every wave that flings Against the prow its showery spray; All creatures joying in the morn, Save them forever from joyance torn, Whose bark was lost where now the dolphins play; Save them that by the fabled shore, Down the pale stream are washed away, Far to the reef of bones are borne; And never revisits them the light, Nor sight of long-sought land and pilot more; Nor heed they now the lone bird’s flight Round the lone spar where mid-sea surges pour. COMMEMORATIVE OF A NAVAL VICTORY Sailors there are of the gentlest breed, Yet strong, like every goodly thing; The discipline of arms refines, And the wave gives tempering. The damasked blade its beam can fling; It lends the last grave grace: The hawk, the hound, and sworded nobleman In Titian’s picture for a king, Are of hunter or warrior race. In social halls a favored guest In years that follow victory won, How sweet to feel your festal fame In woman’s glance instinctive thrown: Repose is yours—your deed is known, It musks the amber wine; It lives, and sheds a light from storied days Rich as October sunsets brown, Which make the barren place to shine. But seldom the laurel wreath is seen Unmixed with pensive pansies dark; There’s a light and a shadow on every man Who at last attains his lifted mark— Nursing through night the ethereal spark. Elate he never can be; He feels that spirit which glad had hailed his worth, Sleep in oblivion.—The shark Glides white through the phosphorus sea.