I will contemn their power; I will
Still strain with joy’s ecstatic thrill,
Thee to this bosom, dearest! till
I rest in heaven from earthly ill.

Give me thy heart, thy unstained hand,
And though I scorn it, give thy land,
Then, by a rainbow sweet and bland,
Shall life’s cerulean arch be spann’d.

Beneath that arch of beauty, flowers
Brilliant as bloom in heaven’s own bowers,
And bathed in joy’s ambrosial showers,
Shall strew the earth through charmed hours.

Beneath that bow, rich melodies,
Like odors that in heaven arise,
Sweet as an angel’s breathing sighs,
Shall rise and kiss the smiling skies.

Give me thy heart, hand, bosom, all
Which thou dost nearest, dearest call,
Than let the darts of envy fall,
Let ruffian malice ban and brawl.

Till life’s long summer shall depart,
The tender thrill of joy shall start,
We’ll laugh at Boreas’ icy dart,
Beside the fire which warms the heart.

EPITAPH FOR AN INFANT.

Sweet bud of life, God knew this earth,
  Was not a home for thee;
He took thee, even from thy birth,
  To bless Eternity.

THE MILLENNIUM.

The promis’d years, the better times,
  By God himself foretold,
Have dawn’d, and banish’d hateful crimes,
  The latest age of gold.

Not now a brother fears to tread
  The way a brother goes,
Not now the wife’s sad heart is fed,
  On brutal cuffs and blows.

Not now the human eye is fierce
  With cruel thirst of gore;
Not now the angry spear doth pierce
  The bosom.  Such are o’er.

This scene become a Paradise,
  A scene of peace and love,
Wherein each living being tries
  To work for God above.

The Bible fills the mighty world,
  The end is drawing nigh,
When, earth in burning fragments hurl’d,
  The soul shall rise on high.

The promis’d years, the better times,
  By God himself foretold,
Have dawned with their triumphal chimes,
  On the sweet air unroll’d.

TO A POET’S WIFE.

Thou art indeed a happy one,
  And hast a charmed life,
A noble triumph thou hast won,
  A bright-eyed Poet’s wife.

His fancy plucks all glittering gems
  From mountain caves and sea,
To form that best of diadems,
  He proudly gives to thee.

That realm that doth thy power obey,
  Is richer far than these,
More sweet its nights, more bright its day,
  More bland its wandering breeze.

And gentle creatures move and kiss
  The sceptre in thy hand,
And gather garlands, wreaths of bliss,
  Amid thy fairy land.

The Angels’ song comes down at times,
  And flows into his song,
Like the triumphal, silver chimes,
  That steal the heavens along.