Be to the best thou knowest ever true, Is all the creed; Then, be thy talisman of rosy hue, Or fenced with thorns that wearing thou must bleed, Or gentle pledge of Love's prophetic view, The faithful steps it will securely lead. Happy are all who reach that shore, And bathe in heavenly day, Happiest are those who high the banner bore, To marshal others on the way; Or waited for them, fainting and way-worn, By burdens overborne. THE DAHLIA, THE ROSE, AND THE HELIOTROPE. In a fair garden of a distant land, Where autumn skies the softest blue outspread, A lovely crimson dahlia reared her head, To drink the lustre of the season's prime; And drink she did, until her cup o'erflowed With ruby redder than the sunset cloud. Near to her root she saw the fairest rose That ever oped her soul to sun and wind. And still the more her sweets she did disclose, The more her queenly heart of sweets did find, Not only for her worshipper the wind, But for bee, nightingale, and butterfly, Who would with ceaseless wing about her ply, Nor ever cease to seek what found they still would find. Upon the other side, nearer the ground, A paler floweret on a slender stem, That cast so exquisite a fragrance round, As seemed the minute blossom to contemn, Seeking an ampler urn to hold its sweetness, And in a statelier shape to find completeness. Who could refuse to hear that keenest voice, Although it did not bid the heart rejoice, And though the nightingale had just begun His hymn; the evening breeze begun to woo, When through the charming of the evening dew, The floweret did its secret soul disclose? By that revealing touched, the queenly rose Forgot them both, a deeper joy to hope And heed the love-note of the heliotrope. TO MY FRIENDS. TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER. Beloved friends! Earth hath known brighter days Than ours; we vainly strive to hide this truth; Would history be silent in their praise, The very stones tell of man's glorious youth, In heavenly forms on which we crowd to gaze; But that high-favored race hath sunk in night; The day is ours--the living still have sight. Friends of my youth! In happier climes than ours, As some far-wandering countrymen declare, The air is perfume; at each step spring flowers. Nature has not been bounteous to our prayer; But art dwells here, with her creative powers, Laurel and myrtle shun our winter snows, But with the cheerful vine we wreathe our brows.