And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou too, whosoe'er thou art, Oh, fear not in a world like this, FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlour-wall; Then the forms of the departed Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished By the road-side fell and perished, They, the holy ones and weakly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; 'Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers. And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Every where about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, |