2. Let the Fates their weapons wield, For a wondrous woven shield Shall be given thee, erelong. Mesh of gold were not so strong; Not so soft were silken shred; Not so fine the spider’s thread Barring the enchanted door In that tale of ancient lore, Guarding, silently and well, All within the mystic cell. Such a shield, where’er thou art, Shall be thine, O wounded heart! From the ills that compass thee Thou behind it shalt be free; Envy, slander, malice, all Shall withdraw them from thy—Pall. 3. Build no house with patient care, Fair to view, and strong as fair; Walled with noble deeds’ renown; Shining over field and town, Seen from land and sea afar, Proud in peace, secure in war. For the moments never sleep, Building thee a castle-keep,— Proof alike ’gainst heat and cold, Earthly sorrows manifold, Sickness, failure of thine ends, And the falling off of friends. Treason, want, dishonor, wrong, None of these shall harm thee long. Every day a beam is made; Hour by hour a stone is laid. Back the cruellest shall fall From the warder at the wall; Foemen shall not dare to tread On the ramparts o’er thy head; Dark, triumphant flags shall wave From the fastness of thy—Grave. XVIII. 1. There’s an hour, at the fall of night, when the blissful souls Of those who were dear in life seem close at hand; There’s a holy midnight hour, when we speak their names In pauses between our songs on the trellised porch; And we sing the hymns which they loved, and almost know Their phantoms are somewhere with us, filling the gaps, The sorrowful chasms left when they passed away; And we seem, in the hush of our yearning voices, to hear Their warm, familiar breathing somewhere near. 2. At such an hour,—when again the autumn haze Silvered the moors, and the new moon peered from the west Over the blue Passaic, and the mansion shone Clear and white on the ridge which skirts the stream,— At the twilight hour a man and a woman sat On the open porch, in the garb of those who mourn. Father and daughter they seemed; and with thoughtful eyes, Silent, and full of the past, they watched the skies. XIX. Silent they were, not sad; for the sod that covers the grave Of those we have given to fame smells not of the hateful mould, But of roses and fragrant ferns, while marvellous immortelles Twine in glory above, and their graces give us joy. Silent, but oh! not sad: for the babe on the couch within Drank at the mother’s breast, till the current of life, outdrawn, Opened inflowing currents of faith and sweet content; And the gray-haired man, repenting in tears the foolish past, Had seen in the light from those inscrutable infant eyes, Fresh from the unknown world, the glimpses which, long ago, Gladdened his golden youth, and had found his soul at peace. XX.