The Golden Dream.

    In midnight dreams the Wizard came,
      And beckoned me away—­
    With tempting hopes of wealth and fame,
      He cheered my lonely way. 
    He led me o’er a dusky heath,
      And there a river swept,
    Whose gay and glassy tide beneath,
      Uncounted treasure, slept. 
    The wooing ripples lightly dashed
      Around the cherished store,
    And circling eddies brightly flashed
      Above the yellow ore. 
    I bent me o’er the deep smooth stream,
      And plunged the gold to get,—­
    But oh! it vanished with my dream—­
      And I got dripping wet! 
    O’er lonely heath and darksome hill,
      As shivering home I went,
    The mocking Wizard whispered shrill,
      ‘Thou’dst better been content!’

The Gipsy’s Prayer.

[Illustration:  The Gipsy’s Prayer]

    Our altar is the dewy sod—­
    Our temple yon blue throne of God: 
    No priestly rite our souls to bind—­
    We bow before the Almighty Mind.

    Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air—­
    Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies’ prayer: 
    Though banned and barred by all beside,
    Be Thou the Outcast’s guard and guide.

    Poor fragments of a Nation wrecked—­
    Its story whelmed in Time’s neglect—­
    We drift unheeded on the wave,
    If God refuse the lost to save.

    Yet though we name no Fatherland—­
    And though we clasp no kindred hand—­
    Though houseless, homeless wanderers we—­
    Oh give us Hope, and Heaven with Thee!

Inscription for a Rural Cemetery.

    Peace to the dead!  The forest weaves,
    Around your couch, its shroud of leaves;
    While shadows dim and silence deep,
    Bespeak the quiet of your sleep.

    Rest, pilgrim, here!  Your journey o’er,
    Life’s weary cares ye heed no more;
    Time’s sun has set, in yonder west—­
    Your work is done—­rest, Pilgrim, rest!

    Rest till the morning hour; wait
    Here, at Eternity’s dread gate,
    Safe in the keeping of the sod,
    And the sure promises of God.

    Dark is your home—­yet round the tomb,
    Tokens of hope—­sweet flowerets bloom;
    And cherished memories, soft and dear,
    Blest as their fragrance, linger here!

    We speak, yet ye are dumb!  How dread
    This deep, stern silence of the Dead! 
    The whispers of the Grave, severe,
    The listening Soul alone can hear!

Song:  The Robin.

[Illustration:  The Robin]

      At misty dawn,
      At rosy morn,
    The Redbreast sings alone: 
      At twilight dim,
      Still, still, his hymn
    Hath a sad, and sorrowing tone.

    Another day, his song is gay,
      For a listening bird is near—­
    O ye who sorrow, come borrow, borrow,
      A lesson of robin here!