BURNS.
We read his life of poverty and bane,
From weakness, folly, error, not exempt,
And turn aside with a depressing pain—
Compassion tinged with something like contempt.
We read his work, and see his human heart,
His manly mind, his true, if thwarted, will,
And all that's noblest in us takes his part,
And shames our former verdict, will or nill.
His was a fiery spirit that unbound
Men's fetters, sometimes leading him astray;
He was a seed that fell into the ground
And brought forth fruit; he cast himself away
Like bread upon the waters, and was found
To nourish worth in many an after day.
A LATE SPRING.
Twelve weeks had passed—how slowly!—day by day,
Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed
Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way!
The Spring, the Spring!" and still a sullen cloud
Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill;
When lo, one morn the miracle began;
A Presence brooded over vale and hill,
And through all life a quickening impulse ran.
Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke
Within my soul; the rapture of the boy
Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke
A brimming tide of elemental joy
From primal deeps; and all my happy springs
Came back to me—I was the peer of kings!
AUTUMN.