The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn,
Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by,
A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on
His journey to the sky.
And down across the valley's drooping sweep,
Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade,
The forest stands in silence, drinking deep
Its purple wine of shade.
The gossamer floats up on phantom wing;
The sailor-vision voyages the skies
And carries into chaos everything
That freights the weary eyes:
Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat
Increases—reaches—passes fever's height,
And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet,
Within the arms of Night.
DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME
DIED—Early morning of September 5, 1876, and in the gleaming dawn of "name and fame," Hamilton J. Dunbar.
Dead! Dead! Dead!
We thought him ours alone;
And were so proud to see him tread
The rounds of fame, and lift his head
Where sunlight ever shone;
But now our aching eyes are dim,
And look through tears in vain for him.
Name! Name! Name!
It was his diadem;
Nor ever tarnish-taint of shame
Could dim its luster—like a flame
Reflected in a gem,
He wears it blazing on his brow
Within the courts of Heaven now.
Tears! Tears! Tears!
Like dews upon the leaf
That bursts at last—from out the years
The blossom of a trust appears
That blooms above the grief;
And mother, brother, wife and child
Will see it and be reconciled.