Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
  While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
  And bear thee off,—­as foemen take their spoil,—­
      Far from thy friends and family to roam;
      Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
  To meet destruction in a foreign broil! 
      Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
      Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

* * * * *

=_Lucy Hooper, 1816-1841._= (Manual, p. 524.)

=_397._= “THE DEATH-SUMMONS.”

  A voice is on mine ear—­a solemn voice: 
   I come, I come, it calls me to my rest;
  Faint not, my yearning heart; rejoice, rejoice;
    Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest: 
  On the bright waters there, the living streams,
    Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark,
  Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams,
    Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark—­
  Not bright as once; O, vain, vain memories, cease,
  I cast your burden down—­I strive for peace.

  I heed the warning voice:  oh, spurn me not,
    My early friend; let the bruised heart go free: 
  Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot
    Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee;
  Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile,
    Thinking o’er wasted hours, a weary train,
  Cheered by the moon’s soft light, the sun’s glad smile,
    Watching the blue sky o’er my path of pain,
  Waiting nay summons:  whose shall be the eye
  To glance unkindly—­I have come to die!

  Sweet words—­to die!  O, pleasant, pleasant sounds,
    What bright revealings to my heart they bring;
  What melody, unheard in earth’s dull rounds,
    And floating from the land of glorious Spring
  The eternal home! my weary thoughts revive,
    Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love,
  Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live,
    Fanned by soft breezes from the world above: 
  And pausing not, I hasten to my rest—­
  Again, O, gentle summons, thou art blest!

* * * * *

=_Catharine Ann Warfield._=

=_398._= “THE RETURN TO ASHLAND.[85]”

    Unfold the silent gates,
    The Lord of Ashland waits
  Patient without, to enter his domain;
    Tell not who sits within,
    With sad and stricken mien,
  That he, her soul’s beloved, hath come again.

    Long hath she watched for him,
    Till hope itself grew dim,
  And sorrow ceased to wake the frequent tear;
    But let these griefs depart,
    Like shadows from her heart—­
  Tell her, the long expected host is here.

    He comes—­but not alone,
    For darkly pressing on,
  The people pass beneath his bending trees,
    Not as they came of yore,
    When torch and banner bore
  Their part amid exulting harmonies.