And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet.

These way-side blossoms amulets are of price;
They lead to pleasure, yet from dangers warn;--
Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise,
And sunset death to heaven's eternal morn.

A good deed done hath memory's blest perfume,--
A day of self-forgetfulness, all given
To holy charity, hath perennial bloom
That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven.

Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies--
Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit;
And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies,
'Tis that no tears are there to wet its root.




To a Lady who had been Singing.


The spirit-harp within the breast
A spirit's touch alone can know,--
Yet thine the power to wake its rest,
And bid its echoing numbers flow.

Yes,--and thy minstrel art the while,
Can blend the tones of weal and we,