From taint of Earth, thy tender drawings be.

There we may find a friend remembered;

With a new aureole hovering round the head,

Given by Art's peaceful immortality.

How many homes half empty fill the place Death vacates, with thy gracious substitutes!

Not sensuous with color, which may disgrace

The memory of the body shared with brutes;

But the essential spirit in the face;

As angels see us, best, Affection suits.

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, AFTER THE WAR.

OH! happiest thou, who from the shining height,

Of tablelands serene can look below Where glared the tempest, and the lightning's glow,

And see thy seed made harvest wave in light,

And

all the darkened land with God's smile bright! Leaving with him the issue. Enough to know

Aibeit the sword hath sundered broth

SHE AND he.

But he who loved her too well to dread

"Come away;

Kiss her! and leave her!-thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tr .sses of dark brown hair;

On her forehead of marble they laid it fair:

Over her eyes, which gazed too much,

They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well

The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows, and her dear, pale face

They tied her veil and her marriagelace;

HE who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Pale and white and cold as snow;
Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Weeping at the feet and head,
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!"
I can see your falling tears,
1 can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this,—
"I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends! What the women lave
For its last bed of the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which, at last,
Like a hawk my soul hath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room,--
The wearer, not the garb,

plume

the

Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from these splendid

stars.

Loving friends! Be wise and dry
Straightway every weeping eye,-
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell,- one
Out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here,

'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,-
In enlarging paradise,

Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death,- for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.

Be ye certain all seems love,
Viewed from Allah's throne above;
Be ye stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home!
La Allah illa Allah! yea!

Thou love divine! Thou love alway!

IN THE DARK,

[The author's last poem, written a few days before his death.]

ALL moveless stand the ancient

cedar-trees

Let those who wish them toil for gold and praise;

To me the summer-day brings more of pleasure.

While solemn voices from the Past are calling,

Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees,

And pleasant sounds of water idly falling.

There was a time when I had higher aims

Than thus to lie among the flowers and listen

To listening birds, or watch the sunset's flames

On the broad river's surface glow and glisten.

There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought

To make a name, a home, a bright

existence:

But time has shown me that my dreams are naught

Save a mirage that vanished with the distance.

Well, it is gone: I care no longer

now

For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises;

Rather than wear a crown upon my brow,

I'd lie forever here among the daisies.

So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by;

With you I surely cannot think to quarrel:

Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie,

And spare me both the labor and the laurel!