Thou speak’st not, giant, but I feel
  Hope’s roseate flush upon my brow. 
  Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow. 
New aims thy glory will reveal. 
Thou heed’st the anguished bosom’s smart,
And thou wilt choose the better part. 
Thou’lt live on hist’ry’s brightest page
A monarch mighty, gentle sage: 
Great, great for what thou wilt have done
And blest in all the course thou’lt run:—­
Thy crown not carved in brass or wood,
          To crumble or decay;
          But be in endless day,
Emblem of grandeur, shrined in good. 
And truth and peace will round thee weave
  An amaranthyne wreath of love,
Its blessed motto ... trust—­believe. 
  And thou wilt share the realm above,
Where bleeding hearts shall triumph meet,
Around one common mercy-seat.

All hail, then, beautiful New-Year! 
Hero of promise, fraught with cheer! 
Bright promise of the glad return
Of glowing fires that erst did burn
  On hearths long desolate! 
Thy stainless youth supports our faith
That thou wilt break the bonds of death
  And snap the web of hate.

* * * * *

And thou farewell, grim tyrant old! 
  Who, who would call thee back! 
Thou cam’st with bloody footstep, bold;
  Thou leav’st a blood-stained track.

Go!  Find a grave in the billowy surge
  That ne’er can wash thee clean;
The wail of millions be thy dirge—­
  Thy judge—­the Great Unseen!

And when the resurrection morn
  Shall seek thy name to blot,
Ho!  Heed the voice that asks in scorn,—­
  Thou liv’dst and reign’dst for what?

Passion unbridled, stubborn pride,
  Avengers, thine to rue,
Of outraged virtue, truth defied,
  Shall ’balm in blood thy due,
      Lost eighteen sixty-two.

MY BIRTHDAY.

TO S——­ 1864.

The night is strangely, wildly dark;
  The thunders fiercely roll,
And lightnings flash their angry spark;
  But thou absorb’st my soul. 
I have no care for storm-king’s cloud,
  How black soe’er it be;—­
No truant thought for earth’s dark shroud: 
  I’m thinking, love, of thee.

To-night the God of battles views,
  With deprecating eye,
A scene where demons wild infuse
  A thirst for victory. 
’Tis His, not mine to guide the storm;
  ’Tis His to calm the sea: 
My spirit hovers ’round thy form. 
  I’m thinking, love, of thee.

Time’s cycle once again has wrought
  Its round:—­I’m twenty six. 
Another mile-stone’s gained—­sad thought—­
  Toward deep, silent Styx. 
I count no laurels I have won;
  Years bring no joy to me,
While yet alone I wander on
  In timid thought of thee.

Years six and twenty have been mine
  To journey on alone: 
Shall I as many more repine,
  Before I am undone? 
Or shall the journey henceforth take
  A brighter phaze for me? 
Shall I next six-and-twenty make
  My journey, love, with thee?