“‘As calmest waters mirror Heaven the best, So best befit remembrances of thee Calm holy hours from earthly passion free, Sweet twilight musing,--Sabbaths in the breast. No stooping thought, nor any grovelling care, The sacred whiteness of that place shall stain, Where, far from heartless joys and rites profane, Memory has reared to thee an altar fair. Yet frequent visitors shall kiss the shrine, And ever keep its vestal lamp alight; All noble thoughts, all dreams divinely bright, That waken or delight this soul of mine.’ So Love, meek pilgrim! his young vows did pay, With glowing eyes that must his lips gainsay.” A higher gospel is preached in the sonnet of another American poet, who has written too few verses,--or rather has published too few of the many he has composed. “As unto blooming roses, summer dews, Or morning’s amber to the tree-top choirs, So to my bosom are the beams that use To rain on me from eyes that Love inspires; Your love,--vouchsafe it, royal-hearted Few,-- And I will set no common price thereon; O, I will keep, as Heaven his holy blue, Or Night her diamonds, that dear treasure won. But aught of inward faith must I forego, Or miss one drop from Truth’s baptismal hand, Think poorer thoughts, pray cheaper prayers, and grow Less worthy trust, to meet your hearts’ demand: Farewell! your wish I for your sake deny; Rebel to love in truth to love am I.” A poet who has been more than once quoted in this essay, saw no sharp hostility between Love and Death,--those reputed foes,--but thus addressed the last earthly benefactor of mankind:-- “O Death! thou art the palace of our hopes, The storehouse of our joys,--great labor’s end.” His friend, confronting the same inevitable guest, questioned the dark angel, in these lines, that conform to the rule of the sonnet in spirit, if not in rhyme:-- “What strange deep secret dost thou hold, O Death! To hallow those thou claimest for thine own? That which the open book could never teach, The closed one whispers, as we stand alone By one, how more alone than we!--and strive To comprehend the passion of that peace. In vain our thoughts would wind within the heart, The heart of this great mystery of release!-- Baptism of Death--which steepest infant eyes In grace of calm that saints might hope to wear, Whose cold touch purifies the guilty brow, And sets again the seal of childhood there-- Our line of life in vain would sound thy sea, That which we seek to know,--we soon shall be.”