What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
If you trust me, I’ll be true,
If you slight me, I’ll slight you,
If you wrong me, you shall rue—­
        Take my hand!

What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
I can work with any tools—­
Clothe myself by stripping fools—­
Bend the knee whoever rules—­
        Traitor! stand!

What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
I’ve a heart that hates all wrong,
Aids the weak against the strong,
Loves the Truth, and seeks it long—­
        Take my hand!

What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
I forgive no woman’s sin,
Hunt her with self-righteous mien,
Never take her, mourning, in
From the desert of her sin—­
        Traitor! stand!

What art thou—­friend or foe! 
        Stand! stand! 
I’ve a heart that melts at sorrow,
I’ve a store the poor may borrow
I’m the same to-day, to-morrow—­
        Take my hand!

AT PARTING.

Peace!  Let me go, or ere it be too late;
  Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead;
  Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed;
Leave me unmock’d, unpitied to my fate—­
                Peace!  Let me go.

Think you that words can smooth my rugged track? 
  Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made,
  Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid? 
Winds shook not Earth from Atlas’ bended back—­
                Peace!  Let me go.

What though it be the last time we shall meet—­
  Raise your white brow, and wreathe your raven hair,
  And fill with music sweet the summer air;
Not this again shall draw me to your feet—­
                Peace!  Let me go.

No laurels from my vanquish’d heart shall wave
  Round your triumphant beauty as you go,
  Not thus adorn’d work out some other’s woe—­
Yet, if you will, pluck daisies from my grave! 
                Peace!  Let me go.

A WITHERED ROSE-BUD.

Time sets his footprints on our little Earth,
  And, walk he ne’er so softly, some sweet thing
Falls ’neath each foot-fall, crush’d amid its mirth,
  Tracking the course of Life’s short wandering,
With fallen remnants of its mortal part,
  Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.

Thou flower of Love! thou little treasury
  Of gentleness, and purity, and grace! 
What hidden virtue hath Death reft from thee—­
  What unseen essence melted into space? 
For now thou liest like a sinless child,
  Whom God hath homeward to his bosom smiled.

The dew-shower fell on thee, the sunbeam play’d,
  As Life is ever made of smiles and tears;
And ofttimes has the breeze of summer sway’d,
  And with its mellow music mock’d thy fears;
But now, O wonder, thou art pale and wan,
  And there’s a beauty and a fragrance gone!