The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number, And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home-caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses: The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing, Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, He testified this solemn truth, while phrenzy desolated, -Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God created. Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses, That turns his fevered eyes around-"My mother! where's my mother?"— As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other ! The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him, Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him! Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in death to save him. Thus? oh, not thus no type of earth can image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, But felt those eyes alone, and knew,--“My Saviour! not deserted!" Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested, Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted? What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted? Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father: Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry His universe hath shaken It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken ! It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation, That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation ! That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition, And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision. CROWNED AND BURIED. NAPOLEON!-years ago, and that great word An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword Napoleon nations, while they cursed that name, And dying men on trampled battle-sods Napoleon-sages, with high foreheads drooped, That name consumed the silence of the snows That name was shouted near the pyramidal Motioned it back with stillness,-shouts as idle The world's face changed to hear it, kingly men With sprinkled ashes for anointing: then Napoleon !-even the torrid vastitude That name which scattered by disastrous blare And Germany was 'ware; and Italy For verily though France augustly rose With that raised NAME, and did assume by such The purple of the world, none gave so much As she in purchase-to speak plain, in loss— Whose hands, toward freedom stretched, dropped paralyzed To wield a sword or fit an undersized King's crown to a great man's head. And though along Of triumph, pictured or emmarbled dreams Napoleon!'t was a high name lifted high : Our compassing and covering atmosphere Of supreme empire; this of earth's was done- The kings crept out-the peoples sat at home, (A pall embroidered with worn images A deep gloom centered in the deep repose; O wild St. Helen! very still she kept him, Nay, not so long! France kept her old affection She cried, "Behold, thou England! I would have And England answered in the courtesy |