"All above the earth is fair;
Watch and pray!

Night or sorrow come not here:
"Tis perfect day!"

CORNELIUS GEORGE FENNER.

Born 1822-died 1847.

GULF-WEED.

A WEARY weed, toss'd to and fro,
Drearily drench'd in the ocean brine,
Soaring high and sinking low,

Lash'd along without will of mine,—
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea,
Flung on the foam, afar and anear,
Mark my manifold mystery,-

Growth and grace in their place appear!

I bear round berries, gray and red,
Rootless and rover though I be;
My spangled leaves, when nicely spread,
Arboresce as a trunkless tree;
Corals curious coat me o'er,

White and hard in apt array;
'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar,
Gracefully grow I, night and day.

Hearts there are on the sounding shore—
Something whispers soft to me-
Restless and roaming for evermore,
Like this weary weed of the sea;
Bear they yet on each beating breast
The eternal type of the wondrous whole :

Growth unfolding amidst unrest,

Grace informing with silent soul?

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Born in Pennsylvania 1822-died 1872.

THE WINDY NIGHT.

ALOW and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the midnight tempests howl!
With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon;
Or whistle and shriek
Through limbs that creak.
"Tu-who! tu-whit!"

They cry, and flit,

"Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn owl!

Alow and aloof,
Over the roof,

Sweep the moaning winds amain,

And wildly dash

The elm and ash,

Clattering on the window sash,

With a clatter and patter

Like hail and rain,

That well-nigh shatter

The dusky pane!

Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the tempests swell and roar!

Though no foot is astir,

Though the cat and the cur

Lie dozing along the kitchen floor,

There are feet of air

On every stair—

Through every hall!

Through each gusty door

There's a jostle and bustle,

With a silken rustle,

Like the meeting of guests at a festival!

Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the stormy tempests swell!

And make the vane

On the spire complain;

They heave at the steeple with might and main, And burst and sweep

Into the belfry, on the bell!

They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well,
That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep,
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell!

THE DESERTED FARM.

THE elms were old, and gnarl'd, and bent;
The fields, untill'd, were choked with weeds,
Where, every year, the thistles sent

Wider and wider their winged seeds.

Farther and farther the nettle and dock
Went colonizing over the plain,—
Growing, each season, a plenteous stock
Of burrs to protect their wild domain.

The last who ever had plough'd the soil
Now in the furrow'd churchyard lay;
The boy who whistled to lighten his toil
Was a sexton somewhere far away.

Instead, you saw how the rabbit and mole
Burrow'd and furrow'd with never a fear;
How the tunnelling fox look'd out of his hole,
Like one who notes if the skies are clear.

No mower was there to startle the birds

With the noisy whet of his reeking scythe;
The quail, like a cow-boy calling his herds,
Whistled to tell that his heart was blithe.

Now all was bequeath'd with pious care-
The groves and fields fenced round with briars-

To the birds that sing in the cloisters of air,
And the squirrels, those merry woodland friars.

AUTUMN'S SIGHING.

AUTUMN'S sighing,
Moaning, dying;
Clouds are flying

On like steeds;
While their shadows
O'er the meadows
Walk like widows
Deck'd in weeds.

Red leaves trailing,
Fall unfailing,
Dropping, sailing,
From the wood,

That, unpliant,

Stands defiant,
Like a giant

Dropping blood.

Winds are swelling
Round our dwelling,
All day telling

Us their woe;
And at vesper
Frosts grow crisper,
As they whisper

Of the snow.

From the unseen land

Frozen inland,

Down from Greenland

Winter glides,

Shedding lightness
Like the brightness

When moon-whiteness

Fills the tides.

Now bright Pleasure's
Sparkling measures
With rare treasures
Overflow!

With this gladness
Comes what sadness!
Oh, what madness!
Oh, what woe!

Even merit

May inherit

Some bare garret,
Or the ground;
Or, a worse ill,
Beg a morsel

At some door sill,

Like a hound!

Storms are trailing ;
Winds are wailing,
Howling, railing

At each door.
'Midst this trailing,
Howling, railing,
List the wailing
Of the poor!

GEORGE H. BOKER.

Born at Philadelphia 1823—

THE BLACK REGIMENT. (Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.) DARK as the clouds of even, Rank'd in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass and drifts Tempest and falling brand, Over a ruin'd land,So still and orderly,

Arm to arm, knee to knee,