—­Bless God for the wisdom that curtains so tight
    To-morrow’s enjoyments or griefs from our sight! 
    Bless God for the ignorance, darkness and doubt,
    That girdle so kindly our future about!

    The crutches are brought, and the invalid’s strength
    Is able to measure the lawn’s gravel’d length;
    And under the beeches, once more he reclines,
    And hears the wind plaintively moan through the pines;
    His children around him, with frolic and play,
    Cheat autumn’s mild listlessness out of the day;
    And Alice, the sunshine all flecking her book,
    Reads low to the chime of the murmuring brook.

    But the world’s rushing tide washes up to his feet,
    And leaps the soft barriers that bound his retreat;
    The tumult of camps surges out on the breeze,
    And ever seems mocking his Capuan ease. 
    He dare not be happy, or tranquil, or blest,
    While his soil by the feet of invaders is prest: 
    What brooks it though still he be pale as a ghost? 
    —­If he languish or fail, let him fail at his post.

    The gums by the brook-side are crimson and brown;
    The leaves of the ash flicker goldenly down;
    The roses that trellis the porches, have lost
    Their brightness and bloom at the touch of the frost;
    The ozier-twined seat by the beeches, no more
    Looks tempting, and cheerful, and sweet, as of yore;
    The water glides darkly and mournfully on,
    As Alice sits watching it:—­Douglass has gone!

IV.

    “I am weary and worn,—­I am hungry and chill,
    And cuttingly strikes the keen blast o’er the hill;
    All day I have ridden through snow and through sleet,
    With nothing,—­not even a cracker to eat;
    But now, as I rest by the bivouac fire,
    Whose blaze leaps up merrily, higher and higher,
    Impatient as Roland, who neighs to be fed,—­
    For Caleb to bring me my bacon and bread,—­
    I’ll warm my cold heart, that is aching and lone,
    By thinking of you, love,—­my Alice,—­my own!

    “I turn a deaf ear to the scream of the wind,
    I leave the rude camp and the forest behind;
    And Beechenbrook, wrapped in its raiment of white,
    Is tauntingly filling my vision to-night. 
    I catch my sweet little ones’ innocent mirth,
    I watch your dear face, as you sit at the hearth;
    And I know, by the tender expression I see,
    I know that my darling is musing of me. 
    Does her thought dim the blaze?—­Does it shed through the room
    A chilly, unseen, and yet palpable gloom? 
    Ah! then we are equal! You share all my pain,
    And I halve your blessedness with you again!