’Tis a cruel creed, believe it not! 
Death to the good is a milder lot. 
They are here,—­they are here,—­that harmless pair,
In the yellow sunshine and flowing air,
In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass,
In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass. 
They sit where their humble cottage stood,
They walk by the waving edge of the wood,
And list to the long-accustomed flow
Of the brook that wets the rocks below. 
Patient, and peaceful, and passionless,
As seasons on seasons swiftly press,
They watch, and wait, and linger around,
Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground.

The conjunction of Jupiter and Venus. deg.

I would not always reason.  The straight path
Wearies us with its never-varying lines,
And we grow melancholy.  I would make
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness
Around me.  She should be my counsellor,
But not my tyrant.  For the spirit needs
Impulses from a deeper source than hers,
And there are motions, in the mind of man,
That she must look upon with awe.  I bow
Reverently to her dictates, but not less
Hold to the fair illusions of old time—­
Illusions that shed brightness over life,
And glory over nature.  Look, even now,
Where two bright planets in the twilight meet,
Upon the saffron heaven,—­the imperial star
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn
Pours forth the light of love.  Let me believe,
Awhile, that they are met for ends of good,
Amid the evening glory, to confer
Of men and their affairs, and to shed down
Kind influence.  Lo! they brighten as we gaze,
And shake out softer fires!  The great earth feels
The gladness and the quiet of the time. 
Meekly the mighty river, that infolds
This mighty city, smooths his front, and far
Glitters and burns even to the rocky base
Of the dark heights that bound him to the west;
And a deep murmur, from the many streets,
Rises like a thanksgiving.  Put we hence
Dark and sad thoughts awhile—­there’s time for them
Hereafter—­on the morrow we will meet,
With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs,
And make each other wretched; this calm hour,
This balmy, blessed evening, we will give
To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days,
Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared
The land with dread of famine.  Autumn, yet,
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. 
The dog-star shall shine harmless:  genial days
Shall softly glide away into the keen
And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears
The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams,
And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air.

Emblems of power and beauty! well may they
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw
Towards the great Pacific, marking out
The path of empire.  Thus, in our own land,
Ere long, the better Genius of our race,
Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes,
Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west,
By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back
On realms made happy.