Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same? Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-- The wisdom which is love--till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. deg. 'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, The wish possessed his mighty mind, To wander forth wherever lie The homes and haunts of human-kind. Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves; Went up the New World's forest streams, Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves; Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, The sallow Tartar, midst his herds, The peering Chinese, and the dark False Malay uttering gentle words. How could he rest? even then he trod The threshold of the world unknown; Already, from the seat of God, A ray upon his garments shone;-- Shone and awoke the strong desire For love and knowledge reached not here, Till, freed by death, his soul of fire Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere. Then--who shall tell how deep, how bright The abyss of glory opened round? How thought and feeling flowed like light, Through ranks of being without bound? THE FOUNTAIN. deg. Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, With the cool sound of breezes in the beach, Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up From the red mould and slimy roots of earth, Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air, In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright. This tangled thicket on the bank above Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green! For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine That trails all over it, and to the twigs Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts Her leafy lances; the viburnum there, Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up Her circlet of green berries. In and out The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown, Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest. Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held A mighty canopy. When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up, Opened, in airs of June, her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-winged insects of the sky.