"Visit oft the place; above me
Root out weeds and grass;
Fast no more; obeying, love me;
Watch what comes to pass."
Waiting through the long day dreary,
Still he hungers on;
Once more wrestling, weak and weary,
Still the fight is won.
Stripped of robes and golden feather,
Buried lies the guest:
Summer's wonder-working weather
Warms his place of rest.
Ever his commands fulfilling,
Mourns his victor friend,
Fearing, with a heart unwilling,
To have known the end.
No! upon the dark mould fallow
Shine bright blades of green;
Rising, spreading, plumes of yellow
O'er their sheaves are seen.
Higher than a mortal's stature
Soars the corn in pride;
Seeing it, he knows that Nature
There stands deified.
"'Tis my friend," he cries, "the guerdon
Fast and prayer have won;
Want is past, and hunger's burden
Soon shall torture none."
THE ISLES OF HURON
Bright are the countless isles which crest
With waving woods wide Huron's breast,—
Her countless isles, that love too well
The crystal waters whence they rise,
Far from her azure depths to swell,
Or wanton with the wooing skies;
Nor, jealous, soar to keep the Day
From laughing in each rippling bay,
But floating on the flood they love,
Soft whispering, kiss her breast, and seek
No passions of the air above,
No fires that burn the thunder-peak.