GO you by with gentle tread. This was Paula, who is dead: Eyes dark-lustrous to the look As a leaf-pavilioned brook, Voice upon the ear to cling Sweeter than the cithern-string; Whose shy spirit, unaware Loosed into refreshful air, With it took for talisman, Climbing past the starry van, Names to which the heavens do ope, Candor, Chastity, and Hope. JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX. COMPASSIONATE eyes had our brave John Brown, And a craggy stern forehead, a militant frown; He, the storm-bow of peace. Give him volley on volley, The fool who redeemed us once of our folly, And the smiter that healed us, our right John Brown! Too vehement, verily, was John Brown! For waiting is statesmanlike; his the renown Of the holy rash arm, the equipper and starter Of freedmen; aye, call him fanatic and martyr: He can carry both halos, our plain John Brown. A scandalous stumbling-block was John Brown, And a jeer; but ah! soon from the terrified town, In his bleeding track made over hilltop and hollow, Wise armies and councils were eager to follow, And the children’s lips chanted our lost John Brown. Star-led for us, stumbled and groped John Brown, Star-led, in the awful morasses to drown; And the trumpet that rang for a nation’s upheaval, From the thought that was just, thro’ the deed that was evil, Was blown with the breath of this dumb John Brown! Bared heads and a pledge unto mad John Brown! Now the curse is allayed, now the dragon is down, Now we see, clear enough, looking back at the onset, Christianity’s flood-tide and Chivalry’s sunset In the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown! SONNETS APRIL DESIRE. WHILE in these spacious fields is my sojourn, Needs must I bless the blossomy outbreak Of earth’s pent beauty, and for old love’s sake Trembling, the bees’ on-coming chant discern; Hail the rash hyacinth, the ambushed fern, High-bannered boughs that green defiance make, And watch from sheathing ice the brave Spring take Her broad, bright river-blade. Ah! then, in turn Long-hushèd forces stir in me; I feel All the most sharp unrest of the young year; Fain would my spirit, too, like idling steel Be snatched from its dull scabbard, for a strife With cold oppressions! straightway, if not here, In consummated freedom, ampler life. TWOFOLD SERVICE.