A Sanitary Message.

"I come to wash away no stain Upon your wasted lea;

I raise no banners, save the ones

The forest wave to me:

Upon the mountain side, where Spring
Her farthest picket sets,
My réveille awakes a host
Of grassy bayonets.

"I visit every humble roof;
I mingle with the low:

Only upon the highest peaks
My blessings fall in snow;

Until in tricklings of the stream,
And drainings of the lea,

My unspent bounty comes at last

To mingle with the sea."

And thus all night, above the wind,

I heard the welcome rain,

A fusillade upon the roof,

A tattoo on the pane:

165

The key-hole piped; the chimney-top

A warlike trumpet blew ;

But, mingling with these sounds of strife, This hymn of peace stole through.

THE COPPERHEAD.

(1864.)

THERE is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead

sleeps,

Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapour

creeps,

Where the musk of magnolia hangs thick in the air, And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer;

There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is

death,

Though the mist is miasm, the upas-tree's breath,

Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,

There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves!

Go seek him he coils in the ooze and the drip
Like a thong idly flung from the slave driver's whip;

But beware the false footstep,

the stumble that

brings

A deadlier lash than the overseer swings.

Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread,

As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head;

Whether slave, or proud planter, who braves that dull

crest,

Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's

rest!

Then why waste your labours, brave hearts and strong

men,

In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?

Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade
To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made;
Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapours away,
Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play;
And then to your heel can you righteously doom
The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!

ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING.

THIS is the reed the dead musician dropped,

With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;

The prompt allegro of its music stopped,

Its melodies unbidden.

But who shall finish the unfinished strain,
Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,
And bid the slender barrel breathe again,-
An organ-pipe of thunder?

His

pen ! what humbler memories cling about

Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing

graces

Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out In smiles and courtly phrases!

The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung;
The word of cheer, with recognition in it;