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But the hearth shall kindle clearer,
Household welcomes sound sincerer,
Heart to loving heart draw nearer,
When the bridal bells shall say:
"Hope and pray, trust alway;

Life is sweeter, love is dearer,
For the trial and delay!"

LATER POEMS.

1856-7.

LATER POEMS.

THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.

I.

O'ER the bare woods, whose outstretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain,

I see, beyond the valley lands,

The sea's long level dim with rain. Around me all things, stark and dumb, Seem praying for the snows to come, And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone, With winter's sunset lights and dazzling morns

atone.

II.

Along the river's summer walk,

The withered tufts of asters nod;

And trembles on its arid stalk,

The hoar plume of the golden-rod.

And on a ground of sombre fir,
And azure-studded juniper,

The silver birch its buds of purple shows,

And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet

wild rose!

III.

With mingled sound of horns and bells,
A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly,
Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells,
Like a great arrow through the sky,

Two dusky lines converged in one,

Chasing the southward-flying sun;

While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay
Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay.

IV.

I passed this way a year ago:

The wind blew south; the noon of day Was warm as June's; and save that snow Flecked the low mountains far away, And that the vernal-seeming breeze Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, I might have dreamed of summer as I lay, Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at

play.

V.

Since then, the winter blasts have piled

The white pagodas of the snow

On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild,

Yon river, in its overflow

Of spring-time rain and sun, set free,

Crashed with its ices to the sea;

And over these gray fields, then green and gold,

The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ

rolled.

VI.

Rich gift of God! A year of time!

What pomp of rise and shut of day, What hues wherewith our Northern clime

Makes autumn's dropping woodlands gay,

What airs outblown from ferny dells,
And clover-bloom and sweet-brier smells,

What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and

flowers,

Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours!

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