What is it to the violet lightning thought?
  So with the burning passion of the stars—
  Creation's diamond sands,
  Strewn along the pearly strands,
  And far-extending corridors
  Of heaven's blooming shores;
  No scintil of their jewelled flame
  But wafts the exquisite essence
  Of prayer to the Eternal Presence,
  Of praise to the Eternal Name.
  The silent prayer unbars

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  The gates of Paradise, while the too-intimate,
  Self-righteous' boast, strikes rudely at the gate
  Of heaven, unknowing why it does not open to
  Their summons, as they see pale Silence passing through.

VIII.

  In grateful admiration, till the Dawn
  Withdrew the gleaming curtains of the night,
  We watched the whirling systems, until each
  Could recognize their own peculiar star;
      When, with the swift celerity
      Of Fancy-footed Thought,
  The light-caparisoned, aërial steeds,
      Shod with rare fleetness,
  Revisited the farthest of the spheres
  Ere the earth's sun had kissed the mountain tops,
  Or shook the sea-pearls from his locks of gold.

———

      Still on the Evening Star
      Gazed we with steadfast eyes,
          As it shone
          On its throne
            Afar,
      In the blue skies.
      No longer the charioteers
      Dashed through the gleaming spheres;
      No more the evangels
        Rehearsed the glad story;
      But, in passing, the angels
        Left footprints of glory:

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      For up the starry void
      Bright-flashing asteroid,
      Pale moon and starry choir,
      Aided by Fancy's fire,
      Rung from the glittering lyre
      Changes of song and hymn,
      Worthy of Seraphim.
  Night's shepherdess sat, queenlike, on her throne,
  Watching her starry flocks from zone to zone,
  While we, like mortals turned to breathing stone,
  Intently pondered on the Known Unknown.

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CROWNED.

  Her thoughts are sweet glimpses of heaven,
    Her life is that heaven brought down;
  Oh, never to mortal was given
    So rare and bejewelled a crown!
  I'll wear it as saints wear the glory
    That radiantly clasps them above—
      Oh, dower most fair!
      Oh, diadem rare!
    Bright crown of her maidenly love.

  My heart is a fane of devotion,
    My feelings are converts at prayer,
  And every thrill of emotion
    Makes dearer the crown I would wear.
  My soul in its fulness of rapture
    Begins its millennial reign,
      Life glows like a sun,
      Love's zenith is won,
    And Joy is sole monarch again.

  My noonday of life is as morning,
    God's light streams approvingly down;
  Uncovered, I wait her adorning,
    She comes with the beautiful crown!
  I'll wear it as saints wear the glory
    That radiantly clasps them above—
      Oh, dower most fair!
      Oh, diadem rare!
    Bright crown of her maidenly love.

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MARILINE.

  At the wheel plied Mariline,
  Beauteous and self-serene,
  Never dreaming of that mien
  Fit for lady or for queen.

  Never sang she, but her words,
  Music-laden, swept the chords

  Of the heart, that eagerly
  Stored the subtle melody,
  Like the honey in the bee;
  Never spake, but showed that she

  Held the golden master-key
  That unlocked all sympathy

  Pent in souls where Feeling glows,
  Like the perfume in the rose,
  Like her own innate repose,
  Like the whiteness in the snows.

  Richly thoughted Mariline!
  Nature's heiress!—nature's queen!

II.

  By her side, with liberal look,
  Paused a student o'er a book,
  Wielder of a shepherd's crook,
  Reveller by grove and brook:

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  Hunter-up of musty tomes,
  Worshipper of deathless poems:

  Lover of the true and good,
  Hater of sin's evil brood,
  Votary of solitude,
  Man, of mind-like amplitude.

  With exalted eye serene
  Gazed he on fair Mariline.

  Swifter whirled the busy wheel,
  Piled the thread upon the reel—
  Saw she not his spirit kneel,
  Praying for her after-weal?

  Like the wife of Collatine,
  Busily spun Mariline.

III.

  Hour by hour, and day by day,
  Sang the maid her roundelay;
  Hour by hour, and day by day,
  Spun her threads of white and gray.

  While the shepherd-student held
  Commune with the great of eld:

  Pondered on their wondrous words,
  While he watched his scattered herds,
  While he stemmed the surging fords.
  And he knew the lore of birds,

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  Learned the secrets of the rills,
  Conversed with the answering hills.

  Like her threads of white and gray,
  Passed their mingled Eves away,
  One unceasing roundelay—
  Winter came, it still was May!

IV.

  When the spring smiled, opening up
  Pink-lipped flower and acorn cup;

  When the summer waked the rose
  In the scented briar boughs;
  When the earth, with painless throes,
  Bore her golden autumn rows—

  Field on field of grain, that pressed,
  Childlike, to her fruitful breast—

  When hale winter wrapped his form
  In the mantle of the storm,
  Tamed the bird, and chilled the worm,
  Stopped the pulse that thrilled the germ;

  As the seasons went and came,
  One in heart, and hope, and aim,

  Cheered they each the other on,
  Where was labor to be done,
  At day-break or set of sun,
  Like two thoughts that merge in one.

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  Dignified, and soul-serene,
  Busily spun Mariline.

V.

  Brightly broke the summer morn,
  Like a lark from out the corn,—
  Broke like joy just newly born
  From the depths of woe forlorn,—

  Broke with grateful songs of birds,
  Lowings of well-pastured herds;

  Hailed by childhood's happy looks,
  Cheered by anthems of the brooks—
  Chants beyond the lore of books—