the bruised heart go free:
Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot
Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee;
Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile,
Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train,
Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile,
Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain,
Waiting nay summons: whose shall be the eye
To glance unkindly--I have come to die!

Sweet words--to die! O, pleasant, pleasant sounds,
What bright revealings to my heart they bring;
What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds,
And floating from the land of glorious Spring
The eternal home! my weary thoughts revive,
Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love,
Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live,
Fanned by soft breezes from the world above:
And pausing not, I hasten to my rest--
Again, O, gentle summons, thou art blest!

* * * * *

=_Catharine Ann Warfield._=

=_398._= "THE RETURN TO ASHLAND.[85]"

Unfold the silent gates,
The Lord of Ashland waits
Patient without, to enter his domain;
Tell not who sits within,
With sad and stricken mien,
That he, her soul's beloved, hath come again.

Long hath she watched for him,
Till hope itself grew dim,
And sorrow ceased to wake the frequent tear;
But let these griefs depart,
Like shadows from her heart--
Tell her, the long expected host is here.

He comes--but not alone,
For darkly pressing on,
The people pass beneath his bending trees,
Not as they came of yore,
When torch and banner bore
Their part amid exulting harmonies.

But still, and sad, they sweep
Amid the foliage deep,
Even to the threshold of that mansion gray,
Whither from life's unrest,
As an eagle seeks his nest,
It ever was his wont to flee away.

And he once more hath come
To that accustomed home,
To taste a calm, life never offered yet;
To know a rest so deep,
That they who watch and weep,
In this vain world may well its peace regret.

[Footnote 85: The home of Henry Clay.]

* * * * *

=_Arthur Cleveland Coxe, 1818-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_399._= THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,
List thy bosom door;
How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!
Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;
'Tis thy heart of sin;
'Tis