Heaven make thee better than thy name, Child of my friends!--For thee I crave What riches never bought, nor fame To mortal longing gave. I pray the prayer of Plato old: God make thee beautiful within, And let thine eyes the good behold In everything save sin! Imagination held in check To serve, not rule, thy poised mind; Thy Reason, at the frown or beck Of Conscience, loose or bind. No dreamer thou, but real all,-- Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth; Life made by duty epical And rhythmic with the truth. So shall that life the fruitage yield Which trees of healing only give, And green-leafed in the Eternal field Of God, forever live! 1853. A MEMORY Here, while the loom of Winter weaves The shroud of flowers and fountains, I think of thee and summer eves Among the Northern mountains. When thunder tolled the twilight's close, And winds the lake were rude on, And thou wert singing, _Ca' the Yowes_, The bonny yowes of Cluden! When, close and closer, hushing breath, Our circle narrowed round thee, And smiles and tears made up the wreath Wherewith our silence crowned thee; And, strangers all, we felt the ties Of sisters and of brothers; Ah! whose of all those kindly eyes Now smile upon another's? The sport of Time, who still apart The waifs of life is flinging; Oh, nevermore shall heart to heart Draw nearer for that singing! Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, And twilight's fire is gleaming, I hear the songs of Scotland's bard Sound softly through my dreaming! A song that lends to winter snows The glow of summer weather,-- Again I hear thee ca' the yowes To Cluden's hills of heather 1854. MY DREAM. In my dream, methought I trod, Yesternight, a mountain road; Narrow as Al Sirat's span, High as eagle's flight, it ran. Overhead, a roof of cloud With its weight of thunder bowed; Underneath, to left and right, Blankness and abysmal night. Here and there a wild-flower blushed, Now and then a bird-song gushed; Now and then, through rifts of shade, Stars shone out, and sunbeams played. But the goodly company, Walking in that path with me, One by one the brink o'erslid, One by one the darkness hid. Some with wailing and lament, Some with cheerful courage went; But, of all who smiled or mourned, Never one to us returned. Anxiously, with eye and ear, Questioning that shadow drear, Never hand in token stirred, Never answering voice I heard! Steeper, darker!--lo! I felt From my feet the pathway melt. Swallowed by the black despair, And the hungry jaws of air,