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Sin met thy brother everywhere!

And is thy brother blamed?

From passion, danger, doubt, and care,

He no exemption claimed.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He feared to scorn or hate;

But, honoring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great,

He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes The poor man's little, more;

Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes From plundered labor's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare—

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

It is not that my lot is low

That makes this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan;
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs
With hollowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sere and dead

It floats upon the water's bed;

I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sullen wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

A Lament.

SWIFTER far than summer's flight, Swifter far than youth's delight, Swifter far than happy night,

Art thou come and gone; As the earth when leaves are dead, As the night when sleep is sped, As the heart when joy is fled, I am left alone, alone.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark

To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray,

Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,

And no last word to say!

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,

And burn your lights faintly! My country there,

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, My Italy's there,— with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair.