"By the remembrance of her loyal life, And parting prayer, I only know my wife, Thy child, shall come-- Where farewells cloud not o'er our ransomed rest-- Hither to reap, with all the crowned and blest, Of bliss the sum. "When Love's rapt sense the heartstrings gently sweep With joy divinely fair, the high and deep, To call her home, She shall mount upward unto purer skies; We shall be waiting, in what glad surprise, Our spirits' own!" _ISLE OF WIGHT_ On receiving a painting of the Isle. Isle of beauty, thou art singing To my sense a sweet refrain; To my busy mem'ry bringing Scenes that I would see again. Chief, the charm of thy reflecting, Is the moral that it brings; Nature, with the mind connecting, Gives the artist's fancy wings. Soul, sublime 'mid human _debris_, 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 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 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. Isle of beauty, thou art teaching Lessons long and grand, tonight, To my heart that would be bleaching To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight. _SPRING_ Come to thy bowers, sweet spring, And paint the gray, stark trees, The bud, the leaf and wing-- Bring with thee brush and breeze. And soft thy shading lay On vale and woodland deep; With sunshine's lovely ray Light o'er the rugged steep. More softly warm and weave The patient, timid grass, Till heard at silvery eve Poor robin's lonely mass. Bid faithful swallows come And build their cozy nests, Where wind nor storm can numb Their downy little breasts. Come at the sad heart's call, To empty summer bowers, Where still and dead are all The vernal songs and flowers. It may be months or years Since joyous spring was there. O come to clouds and tears With light and song and prayer! _JUNE_ Whence are thy wooings, gentle June? Thou hast a naiad's charm; Thy breezes scent the rose's breath; Old Time gives thee her palm. The lark's shrill song doth wake the dawn: The eve-bird's forest flute Gives back some maiden melody, Too pure for aught so mute.