Above the roofs and chimney-tops, And through the slow November rain, A light from some far attic pane, Shines twinkling through the water-drops.

Some lonely watcher waits and weeps, Like me, the step that comes not yet;-- Her watch for weary hours is set, While far below the city sleeps.

The level lamp-rays lay the floors, And bridge the dark that lies below, O'er which my fancies come and go, And peep, and listen at the doors;

And bring me word how sweet and plain, And quaint the lonely attic room, Where she sits singing in the gloom, Words sadder than the autumn rain.

A thousand times by sea and sh.o.r.e, In my wild dreams I see him lie, With face upturned toward the sky, Murdered, and stiffening in his gore;--

Or drowned, and floating with the tide, Within some lonely midnight bay,-- His arms stretched toward me where he lay, And blue eyes staring, fixed and wide.

Oh winds that rove o'er land and sea!

Oh waves that lap the yellow sands!

Oh hide your stealthy, treacherous hands, And call no more his name to me.'--

Thus much I heard,--and unawares, The sense of pity stole away My loneliness and misery,-- When lo, a light step on the stairs!--

Ah joy!--the step that brings my own, Safe from all harms and dangers in;-- My heart lifts up its thankful hymn, And bids' good-night to night and moan.

I sleep,--I rest,--and I forget The bridge-the night-lamp's level beams, Till waiting out of happy dreams, I see her watch-light shining yet.

G.o.d comfort those that watch in vain,-- I breathe to Him my voiceless prayer; Pity their tears and their despair, And bring the wanderers home again,

NEW YEAR, 1868.

Cradled in ice, and swathed in snows, And shining like a Christmas rose, Wreathed round with white chrysanthemums; Heaven in his innocent, brave blue eyes, Straight from the primal paradise, Behold the infant New Year comes!

His looks a serious sweetness wear, As if upon that unseen way, Those baby hands that lightly bear Garlands, and festive tokens gay, For but a glance,--a touch sufficed,-- Had met and touched the infant Christ!

And lingering on the wing, had heard, Sweeter than song of any bird, Of cherub or of seraphim, The notes of that divinest hymn,-- Glory to G.o.d in highest strain, And peace on earth, good will to men.

Oh, diamond days, so royally set In winter's stern and rugged breast, Like jewels in an amulet,-- Your light has cheered, and soothed, and blest, The want and toil, the sighs and tears, And sorrows-of a thousand years!

The bells ring in the merry morn, The poor forget their poverty, The saddest face grows bright with glee, And smiles for joy that he is born; The fair round world shines out with cheer, To welcome in the glad New Year.

Oh ye, whose homes are warm and bright, With plenty smiling at the board, Remember those whose roofs to-night, Nor warmth, nor light, nor food afford, Still make those wants, and woes your care, And let the poor your bounty share.

For yet our hills and lakes along Echoes the herald angels' song,-- Peace and good will!--oh look abroad,-- In every nation, tribe, and clan, Behold the brotherhood of man,-- Behold the Fatherhood of G.o.d!

Peace to our mountains and our hills,-- Peace to our rivers and our rills;-- Our young Dominion takes her place Among the nations west and east,-- G.o.d send her length of happy days, And years of plenty and of peace!

THANKSGIVING.

The Autumn hills are golden at the top, And rounded as a poet's silver rhyme; The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop One after one into the lap of time.

Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse, And forest boughs a fading glory wear; No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops, Silence and peace are brooding everywhere.

The long day of the year is almost done, And nature in the sunset musing stands, Gray-robed, and violet-hooded like a nun, Looking abroad o'er yellow harvest lands:

O'er tents of orchard boughs, and purple vines With scarlet flecked, flung like broad banners out Along the field paths where slow-pacing lines Of meek-eyed kine obey the herdboy's shout;

Where the tired ploughman his dun oxen turns, Unyoked, afield, mid dewy gra.s.s to stray, While over all the village church spire burns-- A shaft of flame in the last beams of day.

Empty and folded are her busy hands; Her corn and wine and oil are safely stored, As in the twilight of the year she stands, And with her gladness seems to thank the Lord.

Thus let us rest awhile from toil and care, In the sweet sabbath of this autumn calm, And lift our hearts to heaven in grateful prayer, And sing with nature our thanksgiving psalm.

MISERERE

Be pitiful, oh G.o.d! the night is long, My soul is faint with watching for the light, And still the gloom and doubt of seven-fold night Hangs heavy on my spirit: Thou art strong.-- Pity me, oh my G.o.d!

I stretch my hands through darkness up to Thee,-- The stars are shrouded, and the night is dumb; There is no earthly help,--to Thee I come In all my helplessness and misery,-- Pity me, oh my G.o.d!

Be pitiful, oh G.o.d!--for I am weak, And all my paths are rough, and hedged about,-- Hold Thou my hand dear Lord, and lead me out, And bring me to the city which I seek,-- Pity me, oh my G.o.d!

By the temptation which Thou didst endure, And by Thy fasting and Thy midnight prayer, Jesu! let me not utterly despair; Oh! hide me in the Rock from ill secure,-- Pity me, oh my G.o.d!

Mine eyes run down with tears that do not cease; Oh! when beyond the river dark and cold, Shall I the white walls of my home behold,-- The shining palaces--the streets of gold,-- And enter through the gates the City of Peace,-- Pity me, oh my G.o.d!

BEYOND

Cloudy argosies are drifting down into the purple dark, And the long low amber reaches, lying on the horizon's mark, Shape themselves into the gateways, dim and wonderful unfurled, Gateways leading through' the sunset, out into the underworld.

How my spirit vainly flutters, like a bird that beats the bars, To be launched upon that ocean, with its tides of throbbing stars, To be gone beyond the sunset, and the day's revolving zone, Out into the primal darkness, and the world of the unknown!

Hints and guesses of its grandeur, broken shadows, sudden gleams, Like a falling star shoot past me, quenched within a sea of dreams,-- But the unimagined glory lying in the dark beyond, Is to these as morn to midnight, or as silence is to sound.

Sweeter than the trees of Eden, dropping purple blooms, and balm, Are the odors wafted toward me from its isles of windless calm,-- And the gold of all our sunsets, with their sapphire all impearled, Would not match the fused and glowing heaven of that under world.

Pale sea-buds there weep forever, water lilies damp and cool, And the mystic lotus shining through its white waves beautiful, In those dusk and sunless valleys, where no steps of mortals tread, Bind the white brows of the living, whom we blindly call the dead.

Oh ye lost ones,--ye departed, who have pa.s.sed that silent sh.o.r.e, Though we call you through the sunset, ye return to us no more.

Have ye found those blessed islands where earth's toils and sorrows cease?