And so the voice of secret prayer,
Ascending on the wings of air,
Though it should reach no listening ear,
Of Deity inclined to hear,
Still soothes the anguish of the mind,
And leaves a tranquil peace behind.

An Answer.

When passing years have streaked with frost
  These tresses now as jet,
When life’s meridian is crossed
  And beauty’s sun has set,
When youth’s last fleeting charm is lost,
  Wilt thou be constant yet,
Nor time thy sentiment exhaust
  And cause thee to forget? 
    If so—­
      My answer, I confess,
    Shall be a calm, decided “Yes”;
      But otherwise a “No”!

Fame.

There is a cliff, no matter where,
  Which softened by the agencies
Of rain, exposure to the air,
  And alternating thaw and freeze,
    Most readily admits the edge
    Of chisel, or the sharpened wedge.

The travelers, while passing by,
  Within its shade find welcome rest;
And one of them mechanically,
  As is a custom in the west,
    Upon its surface stern and gray
    Carved out his name, and went his way.

Though inartistic and uncouth,
  That effort of a novice hand
Exemplifies a striking truth,
  And may Time’s ravages withstand,
    To be by future ages read,
    When years and centuries have fled.

So on life’s mighty thoroughfare,
  The multitude of every class
Leave no inscriptions chiseled, where
  Their transient footsteps chanced to pass,
And waft to each succeeding age
    No echoes from their pilgrimage.

Though many pass, yet few record
  Their names in characters sublime,
By grand achievement, work or word
  Upon the monolith of Time;
    But few inscribe a lasting name
    On the eternal cliffs of Fame.

The First Storm.

The leafless branch and meadow sere,
    The dull and leaden skies,
Join with the mournful wind and drear
In dirges for the passing year,
    Which unreturning flies.

The night in starless gloom descends,
    Nor can the pale moonshine
Break through the clouds whose veil extends
In boundless form, and darkly blends
    With the horizon’s line.

Fond nature, in a playful mood,
    In cover of the night,
Arrays the plain and forest rude,
The city and the solitude,
    In robe of spotless white.

Thoughts.

I dug a grave, one smiling April day,
  A grave whose small proportions testified
To empty arms, and playthings put away,
  To ears which heard, when only fancy cried;
    I wondered, as I shaped that little mound,
    If in my home such grief should e’er be found.

I dug a grave, ’twas in the month of June;
  A grave for one who at his zenith died;
When, on that mound with floral tributes strewn,
  The tear-drops fell of one but late his bride,
    I wondered if upon my silent bier
    Should rest the moist impression of a tear.