Original Poetry.

In changeless green, and grasping close the rock, Up towers the mountain pine. The Winter blast May like an ocean surge be on it cast; Proud doth it stand, and stern defy the shock, Unchanged in verdure and unbroke in crest, Although wild throes may agitate its breast, And clinging closer when the storm is gone, Tired, but unbent upon its granite throne, Not always doth it wrestle with the storm! Skies smile; spring flowers make soft its iron roots; Its sturdy boughs are kissed by breezes warm; And birds gleam in and out with joyous flutes. Duty proves not its strength unless defied, But pleasure has it, too, bright as have hearts untried.

Last night I dreamed of thee, beloved! I held that tiny hand,— Encircled by my clasping arm Once more I saw thee stand,— The blush so faint, yet fairly traced, Rose to thy changing cheek— As when upon thy brows were placed Farewells I could not speak. Thine eyes were filled with softened light, But welcomes now I read, As to my heart, by love's fond sight. I gently drew thy head; And oh, so eloquent were they— So full of earnest truth,— I knew what fain thy heart would say, The promise of thy youth. I knew that thou hadst faithful been To vows of long ago: That speeding time, and changing scene, No change in thee could show, That absence had but bound thy love More firmly to its choice— It needed not one word to prove, One sound of thy loved voice. Yes, silent was that long embrace, Though tears flowed fast and free. As gazing down in that dear face, I read thy love for me; And thought of all the lonely hours When I had wildly yearned To press thee thus unto my heart, And feel my kiss returned. Those midnight hours! by sea and land! How heavily they sped! Sometimes upon a surf-beat strand My weary feet would tread, And when the stars looked calmly down From cloudless foreign skies— Their soft light seemed a radiance thrown From these pure, earnest eyes. 'Twas but a dream! the light breeze swept Soft touches o'er my brow; The spray's cold kiss my lips had met, Oh, still afar art thou! 'Twas but a dream! and yet I heard Thy murmured—"Art thou come!"— Then woke, to feel my spirit stirred With these dear "sounds from home."