Whate’er thy mission, mountain sentinel, [10] To my lone heart thou art a power and spell; A lesson grave, of life, that teacheth me To love the Hebrew figure of a tree. Faithful and patient be my life as thine; As strong to wrestle with the storms of time; [15] As deeply rooted in a soil of love; As grandly rising to the heavens above. Isle Of Wight Written on receiving a painting of the Isle Isle of beauty, thou art singing [20] To my sense a sweet refrain; To my busy mem’ry bringing Scenes that I would see again. [Page 393.] Chief, the charm of thy reflecting, [1] Is the moral that it brings; Nature, with the mind connecting, Gives the artist’s fancy wings. Soul, sublime ’mid human _débris_, [5] Paints the limner’s work, I ween, Art and Science, all unweary, Lighting up this mortal dream. Work ill-done within the misty Mine of human thoughts, we see [10] Soon abandoned when the Master Crowns life’s Cliff for such as we. Students wise, he maketh now thus Those who fish in waters deep, When the buried Master hails us [15] From the shores afar, complete. Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordling In a beauty strong and meek As the rock, whose upward tending Points the plane of power to seek. [20] Isle of beauty, thou art teaching Lessons long and grand, to-night, To my heart that would be bleaching To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight. [Page 394.] Hope ’T is borne on the zephyr at eventide’s hour; It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower,— An infinite essence from tropic to pole, The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul. [5] Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower, And loosens the fetters of pride and of power; It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain, To beautify, bless, and make joyful again. The harp of the minstrel, the treasure of time; [10] A rainbow of rapture, o’erarching, divine; The God-given mandate that speaks from above,— No place for earth’s idols, but hope thou, and love. Rondelet “The flowers of June The gates of memory unbar: The flowers of June Such old-time harmonies _re_tune, I fain would keep the gates ajar,— So full of sweet enchantment are [20] The flowers of June.” JAMES T. WHITE [Page 395.] To Mr. James T. White Who loves not June [2] Is out of tune With love and God; The rose his rival reigns, [5] The stars reject his pains, His home the clod! And yet I trow, When sweet _rondeau_ Doth play a part, [10] The curtain drops on June; Veiled is the modest moon— Hushed is the heart. Autumn Written in childhood, in a maple grove [15]