ss, the worldliness, the strife,
The soul looks o'er the desert of its way
To the green gardens of its early day:
The paradise, for which we vainly mourn,
The heaven, to which our ling'ring eyes still turn,
To which our footsteps never shall return.

SONG.

Pass thy hand through my hair, lore;
One little year ago,
In a curtain bright and rare, love,
It fell golden o'er my brow.
But the gold has passed away, love,
And the drooping curls are thin,
And cold threads of wintry gray, love,
Glitter their folds within:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age--can it be care?

Fasten thine eyes on mine, love;
One little year ago,
Midsummer's sunny shine, love,
Had not a warmer glow.
But the light is there no more, love,
Save in melancholy gleams,
Like wan moonlight wand'ring o'er, love,
Dim lands in troubled dreams:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age--can it be care?

Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love,
One little year ago
It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love,
As the autumn peaches grow.
But the rosy hue has fled, love,
Save a flush that goes and comes,
Like a flow'r born from the dead, love,
And blooming over tombs:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age--can it be care?

TO MRS. DULANEY.

What was thine errand here?
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught
That from this marred earth
Takes its imperfect birth;
It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught
From some far higher sphere,
And though an angel now, thou still must bear
The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.

What was thine errand here?
Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,
With earthly creatures coarse,
Held not discourse,
But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,
Dwelt in communion dear;
And sure they speak to thee that language now,
Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.

What was thine errand here?
To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,
And make infirmity
A patient victory,
And crown life's baseness with a glorious wreath,
That fades not on thy bier,
But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still,
In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell.

IMPROMPTU,
Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg.

Thou who within thyself dost not behold
Ruins as great as these, thoug