n
1862 "A Chaplet of Verses," composed of her own poems, was published.
Besides these volumes, she contributed largely to various magazines and
periodicals.

1. Sow with a generous hand;
Pause not for toil and pain;
Weary not through the heat of summer,
Weary not through the cold spring rain;
But wait till the autumn comes
For the sheaves of golden grain.

2. Scatter the seed, and fear not,
A table will be spread;
What matter if you are too weary
To eat your hard-earned bread;
Sow, while the earth is broken,
For the hungry must be fed.

3. Sow;--while the seeds are lying
In the warm earth's bosom deep,
And your warm tears fall upon it--
They will stir in their quiet sleep,
And the green blades rise the quicker,
Perchance, for the tears you weep.

4. Then sow;--for the hours are fleeting,
And the seed must fall to-day;
And care not what hand shall reap it,
Or if you shall have passed away
Before the waving cornfields
Shall gladden the sunny day.

5. Sow;--and look onward, upward,
Where the starry light appears,--
Where, in spite of the coward's doubting,
Or your own heart's trembling fears,
You shall reap in joy the harvest
You have sown to-day in tears.

LXXXII. TAKING COMFORT.

1. For the last few days, the fine weather has led me away from books and
papers, and the close air of dwellings, into the open fields, and under
the soft, warm sunshine, and the softer light of a full moon. The
loveliest season of the whole year--that transient but delightful interval
between the storms of the "wild equinox, with all their wet," and the
dark, short, dismal days which precede the rigor of winter--is now with
us. The sun rises through a soft and hazy atmosphere; the light mist
clouds melt gradually before him; and his noontide light rests warm and
clear on still woods, tranquil waters, and grasses green with the late
autumnal rains.

2. One fine morning, not long ago, I strolled down the Merrimac, on the
Tewksbury shore. I know of no walk in the vicinity of Lowell so inviting
as that along the margin of the river, for nearly a mile from the village
of Belvidere. The path winds, green and flower-skirted, among beeches and
oaks, through whose boughs you catch glimpses of waters sparkling and
dashing below. Rocks, huge and picturesque, jut out into the stream,
affording beautiful views of the river and t