Lost in my dream, my spirit soars Through paths the wandering angels know; My all-pervading thought explores The azure ocean's lucent shores; I leave my mortal self below, As up the star-lit stairs I climb, And still the widening view reveals In endless rounds the circling wheels That build the horologe of time. New spheres, new suns, new systems gleam; The voice no earth-born echo hears Steals softly on my ravished ears I hear them "singing as they shine"-- A mortal's voice dissolves my dream: My patient neighbor, next in line, Hints gently there are those who wait. O guardian of the starry gate, What coin shall pay this debt of mine? Too slight thy claim, too small the fee That bids thee turn the potent key. The Tuscan's hand has placed in thine. Forgive my own the small affront, The insult of the proffered dime; Take it, O friend, since this thy wont, But still shall faithful memory be A bankrupt debtor unto thee, And pay thee with a grateful rhyme. AVE PRELUDE TO "ILLUSTRATED POEMS" FULL well I know the frozen hand has come That smites the songs of grove and garden dumb, And chills sad autumn's last chrysanthemum; Yet would I find one blossom, if I might, Ere the dark loom that weaves the robe of white Hides all the wrecks of summer out of sight. Sometimes in dim November's narrowing day, When all the season's pride has passed away, As mid the blackened stems and leaves we stray, We spy in sheltered nook or rocky cleft A starry disk the hurrying winds have left, Of all its blooming sisterhood bereft. Some pansy, with its wondering baby eyes Poor wayside nursling!--fixed in blank surprise At the rough welcome of unfriendly skies; Or golden daisy,--will it dare disclaim The lion's tooth, to wear this gentler name? Or blood-red salvia, with its lips aflame. The storms have stripped the lily and the rose, Still on its cheek the flush of summer glows, And all its heart-leaves kindle as it blows. So had I looked some bud of song to find The careless winds of autumn left behind, With these of earlier seasons' growth to bind. Ah me! my skies are dark with sudden grief, A flower lies faded on my garnered sheaf; Yet let the sunshine gild this virgin leaf, The joyous, blessed sunshine of the past, Still with me, though the heavens are overcast,-- The light that shines while life and memory last. Go, pictured rhymes, for loving readers meant; Bring back the smiles your jocund morning lent, And warm their hearts with sunbeams yet unspent! BEVERLY FARMS, July 24, 1884. KING'S CHAPEL READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY Is it a weanling's weakness for the past That in the stormy, rebel-breeding town, Swept clean of relics by the levelling blast, Still keeps our gray old chapel's name of "King's," Still to its outworn symbols fondly clings,-- Its unchurched mitres and its empty crown?