FORESIGHT.
Unbar, O heavy clouds, the gated West!
That this most weary day, beholding so
Her goal, may hasten her sad steps; I know
She comes without fair gifts; upon her breast
Close-clasped, the pale cold hands together pressed
Hold nothing;—then let some red sunset glow
Tempt her to seek the unknown world below
The far horizon where she hopes for rest!
At last the day, like some poor toil-worn slave,
Passes, and leaves in sooth no gift for me;—
Yet I, who thought my heart could be so brave
To bear what I had wisdom to foresee,
Sob in despair, as this poor day that gave
Me nothing, sinks behind the western sea!
TO FRANK S. R——.
WITH A VIOLIN.
The stately trees that in the forest grow
Are not all destined for the same high thing;
Some burn to useless cinders in the glow
Of the hearth-fire; while some are meant to sing
For centuries the never-dying song
Once caught from wandering breeze or lingering bird
So clearly and so surely, that the strong
Firm wood was quickly seized by one who heard,
To fashion his dear violin;—even so
Our human souls are fashioned; some will fade
Away to useless ashes, others grow
Immortal through the sweetness they have made.