And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine,— It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I’ve in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. There are some happy moments in this lone And desolate world of ours, that well repay The toil of struggling through it, and atone For many a long, sad night and weary day. They come upon the mind like some wild air Of distant music, when we know not where, Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power, Though brief, is boundless. RICHARD HENRY DANA. Among the first to make a creditable appearance in the field of American literature was Richard Henry Dana, the last of the writers of his generation who achieved success both in prose and verse, and won the right to be ranked among the most vigorous authors of the first half of the present century.—_James Grant Wilson._ From “THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL.” Turn with me from pining thought And all the inward ills that sin has wrought; Come, send abroad a love for all who live, And feel the deep content in turn they give. Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor; They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door. The streams of love flow back where they begin; For springs of outward joys lie deep within. E’en let them flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad, And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear The music of those waters running near; And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam, That now upon the water dances. Now, Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough. Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell? In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine, Guard with a reverent fear this power divine, And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state, But temper of the soul, by which we rate Sadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom move With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love; And let each feeling in thy breast be given An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven, And springing into act, new life imparts, Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. The earth is full of life; the living hand Touched it with life; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit Man’s varied powers, and raise from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be full,— Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull, Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!