Yes, as my swift days near their goal: 'Tis all that I implore; In life and death a chainless soul, With courage to endure. ***** POEMS BY ACTON BELL, A REMINISCENCE. Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee, May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know. Yet, though I cannot see thee more, 'Tis still a comfort to have seen; And though thy transient life is o'er, 'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been; To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere. THE ARBOUR. I'll rest me in this sheltered bower, And look upon the clear blue sky That smiles upon me through the trees, Which stand so thick clustering by; And view their green and glossy leaves, All glistening in the sunshine fair; And list the rustling of their boughs, So softly whispering through the air. And while my ear drinks in the sound, My winged soul shall fly away; Reviewing lone departed years As one mild, beaming, autumn day; And soaring on to future scenes, Like hills and woods, and valleys green, All basking in the summer's sun, But distant still, and dimly seen. Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath That gently shakes the rustling trees-- But look! the snow is on the ground-- How can I think of scenes like these? 'Tis but the FROST that clears the air, And gives the sky that lovely blue; They're smiling in a WINTER'S sun, Those evergreens of sombre hue. And winter's chill is on my heart-- How can I dream of future bliss? How can my spirit soar away, Confined by such a chain as this? HOME. How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays! While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays. That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies; And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs: Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies. But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise; Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees Can yield an answering swell, But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well. For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen, Long winding walks, and borders trim, And velvet lawns between; Restore to me that little spot, With gray walls compassed round, Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the ground.