No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly, There's a vast perfection beyond the grave; Up the bays of heaven the stars shine plainly, The stars lying dim on the brow of the wave. And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, they Shall shine all undimmed in the ether-nave. For the altars of God are lit with souls Fanned to flaming with love where the star-wind rolls. =St. Johns, Michigan, 1889.= AT THE GRAVE IN WALDHEIM Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest, Their lids kissed close 'neath the lips of peace; Over each pulseless and painless breast The hands lie folded and softly pressed, As a dead dove presses a broken nest; Ah, broken hearts were the price of these! The lips of their anguish are cold and still, For them are the clouds and the gloom all past; No longer the woe of the world can thrill The chords of those tender hearts, or fill The silent dead-house! The "people's will" Has mapped asunder the strings at last. "The people's will!" Ah, in years to come, Dearly ye'll weep that ye did not save! Do ye not hear now the muffled drum, The tramping feet and the ceaseless hum, Of the million marchers,--trembling, dumb, In their tread to a yawning, giant grave? And yet, ah! yet there's a rift of white! 'Tis breaking over the martyrs' shrine! Halt there, ye doomed ones,--it scathes the night, As lightning darts from its scabbard bright And sweeps the face of the sky with light! "No more shall be spilled out the blood-red wine!" These are the words it has written there, Keen as the lance of the northern morn; The sword of Justice gleams in its glare, And the arm of Justice, upraised and bare, Is true to strike, aye, 'tis strong to dare; It will fall where the curse of our land is born. No more shall the necks of the nations be crushed, No more to dark Tyranny's throne bend the knee; No more in abjection be ground to the dust! By their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades' trust, By the brave heart-beats stilled, by the brave voices hushed, We swear that humanity yet shall be free! =Pittsburg, 1889.= THE HURRICANE[A] ("We are the birds of the coming storm."--_August Spies._) The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore; Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun; The sea complains, but its great voice is low. Bitter thy woes, O People, And the burden Hardly to be borne! Wearily grows, O People, All the aching Of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn! But yet thy time is not, And low thy moaning. Desert thy sands! Not yet is thy breath hot, Vengefully blowing; It wafts o'er lifted hands.