The priestess of the Sestian tower, Whose knight the sea swam over, Among her votaries’ gifts no flower Of heart’s-ease could discover: She died, but in no evil hour, Who, dying, clasped her lover. The rose-tree has its perfect life When the full rose is blown; Some height of womanhood the wife Beyond thy dream has known; Set not thy head and heart at strife To keep thee from thine own. Hypatia! thine essence rare The rarer joy should merit: Possess thee of that common share Which lesser souls inherit: All gods to thee their garlands bear,— Take one from Love and wear it! THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND. O long are years of waiting, when lovers’ hearts are bound By words that hold in life and death, and last the half-world round; Long, long for him who wanders far and strives with all his main, But crueller yet for her who bides at home and hides her pain! And lone are the homes of New England. ’Twas in the mellow summer I heard her sweet reply; The barefoot lads and lassies a-berrying went by; The locust dinned amid the trees; the fields were high with corn; The white-sailed clouds against the sky like ships were onward borne: And blue are the skies of New England. Her lips were like the raspberries; her cheek was soft and fair, And little breezes stopped to lift the tangle of her hair; A light was in her hazel eyes, and she was nothing loth To hear the words her lover spoke, and pledged me there her troth; And true is the word of New England. When September brought the golden-rod, and maples burned like fire, And bluer than in August rose the village smoke and higher, And large and red among the stacks the ripened pumpkins shone,— One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us alone; And sweet are the lanes of New England. We loved each other truly! hard, hard it was to part; But my ring was on her finger, and her hair lay next my heart. “’Tis but a year, my darling,” I said; “in one short year, When our Western home is ready, I shall seek my Katie here”; And brave is the hope of New England. I went to gain a home for her, and in the Golden State With head and hand I planned and toiled, and early worked and late; But luck was all against me, and sickness on me lay, And ere I got my strength again ’twas many a weary day; And long are the thoughts of New England. And many a day, and many a month, and thrice the rolling year, I bravely strove, and still the goal seemed never yet more near. My Katie’s letters told me that she kept her promise true, But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few; And stern is the pride of New England.