Against the lingering summer morn;
Then, riding down the starry sky,
She follows me till night goes by. 
And when the dawn breaks on yon town,
I think the sleepers lying down
Must rise to shoulder dismal care
Methinks that once was but my fare. 
But I upon the hilltop yet
Am free from every tangling fret;
So ever thus, in peace of mind,
I give my pity to my kind. 
For me this noble solitude! 
And as I face its varying mood,
Reflected in its every show,
Some higher self I come to know. 
See, autumn here, with color glad,
Not like the poets—­russet clad—­
But scarlet, umber, green, and gold;
Then in a breath I must behold
The autumn winds tear down my screen,
And leave me not a leaf to glean. 
The snow will cover glen and height,
And all my hilltop glisten white;
I see the crystal atoms fly
Under the dome of this gray sky. 
Like gnomes are they, these spectral gleams? 
Or shall I guess them only dreams? 
Whatever is the truth, I say,
If up and down the world I stray,
Still on the hilltop I would be,
Not by the margent of the sea!

THE MESSAGE.

  To you, my comrades, whether far or near,
  I send this message.  Let our past revive;
  Come, sound reveille to our hearts once more. 
  Expecting, I shall wait till at my door
  I see you enter, each and every one
  Tumultuous, eager all, with clamorous speech,
  To hide my stammering welcome and my tears. 
  I am no host carousing long and late,
  Enticing guests with epicurean hints;
  Nor am I Timon, sick of this sad world,
  Who, jesting, cries, “The sky is overhead,
  And underneath that famous rest, the earth: 
  Show me the man who can have more at last.”

    Without, the thunder of the city rolls;
  Within, the quiet of the student reigns. 
  There is a change.  Time was a childish voice. 
  Sweet as the lark’s when from her nest she soars,
  Thrilled over all, and vanished into heaven. 
  Music once triumphed here:  the skilful hand
  Of him who rarely struck the keys, and woke
  My soul in harmony grand as his own,
  Is folded on his breast, my soldier love. 
  Here hangs his portrait, under it his sword;
  He served his country, and his grave’s afar. 
  Dread not this place as one to relics given,
  Though I have decked with amaranth my wall,
  The testimony of a later loss—­
  His who long wandering in foreign lands,
  Then dying, crossed the sea to die with me. 
  Behold the sunrise and the morning clouds
  On yonder canvas, misty mountain-peaks—­
  The simple grandeur of a perfect art! 
  Behold these vivid woods, that gleam beside
  The happy vision of an autumn eve,
  When red leaves fall, and redder sunsets fade! 
  The world grows pensive sinking into night,
  Whose melancholy space hides sighing winds: 
  Can they reply to sadder human speech? 
  What centuries are counted here—­my books! 
  Shadows of mighty men; the chorus, hark! 
  The antique chant vibrates, and Fate compels!