So, when day grows dark and cold, Tear or triumph harms, Lead Thy lambkins to the fold, Take them in Thine arms; Feed the hungry, heal the heart, Till the morning's beam; White as wool, ere they depart, Shepherd, wash them clean. _THE VALLEY CEMETERY_ Ye soft sighing zephyrs through foliage and vine! Ye echoing moans from the footsteps of time! Break not on the silence, unless thou canst bear A message from heaven--"No partings are there." Here gloom hath enchantment in beauty's array, And whispering voices are calling away-- Their wooings are soft as the vision more vain-- I would live in their empire, or die in their chain. Here smileth the blossom and sunshine not dead-- Flowers fresh as the pang in the bosom that bled,-- Yes, constant as love that outliveth the grave, And time cannot quench in oblivion's wave. And thou, gentle cypress, in evergreen tears, Art constant and hopeful though winter appears. My heart hath thy verdure, it blossoms above; Like thee, it endureth and liveth in love. Ambition, come hither! These vaults will unfold The sequel of power, of glory, or gold; Then rush into life, and roll on with its tide, And bustle and toil for its pomp and its pride. The tired wings flitting through far crimson glow, Which steepeth the trees when the day-god is low; The voice of the night-bird must here send a thrill To the heart of the leaves when the winds are all still. 'Mid graves do I hear the glad voices that swell, And call to my spirit with seraphs to dwell; They come with a breath from the verdant springtime, And waken my joy, as in earliest prime. Blest beings departed! Ye echoes at dawn! O tell of their radiant home and its morn! Then I'll think of its glory, and rest till I see My loved ones in glory still waiting for me. _UPWARD_ I've watched in the azure the eagle's proud wing, His soaring majestic, and feathersome fling-- Careening in liberty higher and higher-- Like genius unfolding a quenchless desire. Would a tear dim his eye, or pinion lose power To gaze on the lark in her emerald bower? When higher he soareth to compass his rest, What vision so bright as the dream in his breast! God's eye is upon him. He penciled his path Whose omniscient notice the frail fledgling hath. Though lightnings be lurid and earthquakes may shock, He rides on the whirlwind or rests on the rock. My course, like the eagle's, oh, still be it high, Celestial the breezes that waft o'er its sky! God's eye is upon me--I am not alone When onward and upward and heavenward borne. Written in early years. _THE OAK ON THE MOUNTAIN'S SUMMIT_