Tender, soft, beseeching, true,
    Like the stars that deck the skies
  Through the ether sparkling,
    Are thine eyes.

  Like the song of happy birds,
    When the woods with spring rejoice,
  In their blithe awak’ning,
    Is thy voice.

  Like soft threads of clustered silk
    O’er thy face so pure and fair,
  Sweet in its profusion,
    Is thy hair.

  Like a fair but fragile vase,
    Triumph of the carver’s art,
  Graceful formed and slender,—­
    Thus thou art.

  Ah, thy cheek, thine eyes, thy voice,
    And thy hair’s delightful wave
  Make me, I’ll confess it,
    Thy poor slave!

THE OLD HOMESTEAD

  ’Tis an old deserted homestead
    On the outskirts of the town,
  Where the roof is all moss-covered,
    And the walls are tumbling down;
  But around that little cottage
    Do my brightest mem’ries cling,
  For ’twas there I spent the moments
    Of my youth,—­life’s happy spring.

  I remember how I used to
    Swing upon the old front gate,
  While the robin in the tree tops
    Sung a night song to his mate;
  And how later in the evening,
    As the beaux were wont to do,
  Mr. Perkins, in the parlor,
    Sat and sparked my sister Sue.

  There my mother—­heaven bless her!—­
    Kissed or spanked as was our need,
  And by smile or stroke implanted
    In our hearts fair virtue’s seed;
  While my father, man of wisdom,
    Lawyer keen, and farmer stout,
  Argued long with neighbor Dobbins
    How the corn crops would turn out.

  Then the quiltings and the dances—­
    How my feet were wont to fly,
  While the moon peeped through the barn chinks
    From her stately place on high. 
  Oh, those days, so sweet, so happy,
    Ever backward o’er me roll;
  Still the music of that farm life
    Rings an echo in my soul.

  Now the old place is deserted,
    And the walls are falling down;
  All who made the home life cheerful,
    Now have died or moved to town. 
  But about that dear old cottage
    Shall my mem’ries ever cling,
  For ’twas there I spent the moments
    Of my, youth,—­life’s happy spring.

ON THE DEATH OF W. C.

  Thou arrant robber, Death! 
  Couldst thou not find
  Some lesser one than he
  To rob of breath,—­
  Some poorer mind
  Thy prey to be?

  His mind was like the sky,—­
    As pure and free;
  His heart was broad and open
    As the sea. 
  His soul shone purely through his face,
  And Love made him her dwelling place.

  Not less the scholar than the friend,
    Not less a friend than man;
  The manly life did shorter end
    Because so broad it ran.