Deep in the bosom of God’s-acre,
  Beyond the reach of grief or care,
  As sweetly rest the good and fair,
Where Life’s rude foes can ne’er o’ertake her;
  Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
  The blessed ones who sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of God’s-acre.

Patience! thou poor one, faint and weary,
  For thou shalt come unto this rest,
  And leaning on a mother’s breast,
Forget the world to thee so dreary: 
  Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
  The happy ones who hoping lie
Deep in the bosom of God’s-acre.

WIND.

Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea,
  Sad with the murmur of the weary waves,
  Wand’ring for ever through old ocean caves,
Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee,
With echoes of forgotten misery?

The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing
  From the far waters of the stormy main,
  Welling their woes forth wearily in rain,
Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging,
And dreary shadows o’er the spirit flinging.

Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart,
  Till as of old the unseal’d waters run? 
  Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one,
To make still sorrows from their slumbers start,
And play again, unsought, their bitter part?

We are all one with Nature—­every breeze
  Stealeth about the chambers of the soul,
  Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole;
And every cloud that creepeth from the seas,
Traileth its shade o’er human sympathies.

Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent,
  And starlight glimmer through the riven seams,
  Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams,
Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent,
And the bright Future gem the firmament.

Blow! blow!  Night’s “Mene Tekel” even now
  Glows on her palace-walls, and she shall pass
  Like the dim vapour from a burnish’d glass;
And no chill shadows o’er the soul shall go,
Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.

A CHALLENGE.

What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
My heart is true as steel,
Steady still in woe and weal,
Strong to bear, though quick to feel—­
        Take my hand!

What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
Only my own ease seek I,
I am deaf to Pity’s cry,
If men hunger, let them die—­
        Traitor! stand!

What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
I’ve a kiss for maiden fair,
I’ve a blow for who may dare,
I’ve a song to banish care—­
        Take my hand!

What art thou—­friend or foe? 
        Stand! stand! 
I’m your servant whilst you’re great,
As you sink, my cares abate,
When you’re poor you have my hate,—­
        Traitor! stand!