FOR DOROTHEA L. DIX. Stranger and traveller, Drink freely and bestow A kindly thought on her Who bade this fountain flow,

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM… On page of thine I cannot trace The cold and heartless commonplace… A statue’s fixed and marble grace. For ever as these lines I penned,

I SAID I stood upon thy grave, My Mother State, when last the mo… Of blossoms clomb the skies of Ju… And, scattering ashes on my head, I wore, undreaming of relief,

MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1760. THE robins sang in the orchard, t… blossoms grew; Little of human sorrow the buds an… knew!

FRANCONIA FROM THE P… Once more, O Mountains of the No… Your brows, and lay your cloudy ma… And once more, ere the eyes that s… Uplift against the blue walls of t…

A railway conductor who lost his l… railway, May 9, 1873. CONDUCTOR BRADLEY, (always… Be said with reverence!) as the sw… Smitten to death, a crushed and ma…

A cloud, like that the old-time H… On Carmel prophesying rain, began To lift itself o’er wooded Cardig… Growing and blackening. Suddenly,… Of chill wind menaced; then a stro…

IN Westminster’s royal halls, Robed in their pontificals, England’s ancient prelates stood For the people’s right and good. Closed around the waiting crowd,

On these green banks, where falls… The shade of Autumn’s afternoon, The south wind blowing soft and sw… The water gliding at nay feet, The distant northern range uplit

Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, o… Formless and void the dead earth r… Deaf to Thy heaven’s sweet music,… To the great lights which o’er it… No sound, no ray, no warmth, no br…

BY fire and cloud, across the des… And through the parted waves, From their long bondage, with an o… God led the Hebrew slaves! Dead as the letter of the Pentate…

Stand still, my soul, in the silen… I would question thee, Alone in the shadow drear and star… With God and me! What, my soul, was thy errand here…

His laurels fresh from song and la… Romance, art, science, rich in all… And young of heart, how dare we sa… We keep his seventieth festival? No sense is here of loss or lack;

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead… That all of thee we loved and cher… Has with thy summer roses perished… And left, as its young beauty fled… An ashen memory in its stead,

A FREE PARAPHRASE OF… To weary hearts, to mourning homes… God’s meekest Angel gently comes No power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again;