When we descend to dust again,
  Where will the final dwelling be
Of Thought and all its memories then,
  My love for thee, and thine for me?

“Earth’s children cleave to earth.”

Earth’s children cleave to Earth—­her frail
  Decaying children dread decay. 
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale,
  And lessens in the morning ray: 
Look, how, by mountain rivulet,
  It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set
  Along the green and dewy steeps: 
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings
  To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
  And bowers of fragrant sassafras. 
Yet all in vain—­it passes still
  From hold to hold, it cannot stay,
And in the very beams that fill
  The world with glory, wastes away,
Till, parting from the mountain’s brow,
  It vanishes from human eye,
And that which sprung of earth is now
  A portion of the glorious sky.

THE HUNTER’S VISION.

Upon a rock that, high and sheer,
  Rose from the mountain’s breast,
A weary hunter of the deer
  Had sat him down to rest,
And bared to the soft summer air
His hot red brow and sweaty hair.

All dim in haze the mountains lay,
  With dimmer vales between;
And rivers glimmered on their way,
  By forests faintly seen;
While ever rose a murmuring sound,
From brooks below and bees around.

He listened, till he seemed to hear
  A strain, so soft and low,
That whether in the mind or ear
  The listener scarce might know. 
With such a tone, so sweet and mild,
The watching mother lulls her child.

“Thou weary huntsman,” thus it said,
  “Thou faint with toil and heat,
The pleasant land of rest is spread
  Before thy very feet,
And those whom thou wouldst gladly see
Are waiting there to welcome thee.”

He looked, and ’twixt the earth and sky
  Amid the noontide haze,
A shadowy region met his eye,
  And grew beneath his gaze,
As if the vapours of the air
Had gathered into shapes so fair.

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers
  Showed bright on rocky bank,
And fountains welled beneath the bowers,
  Where deer and pheasant drank. 
He saw the glittering streams, he heard
The rustling bough and twittering bird.

And friends—­the dead—­in boyhood dear,
  There lived and walked again,
And there was one who many a year
  Within her grave had lain,
A fair young girl, the hamlet’s pride—­
His heart was breaking when she died: 

Bounding, as was her wont, she came
  Right towards his resting-place,
And stretched her hand and called his name
  With that sweet smiling face. 
Forward with fixed and eager eyes,
The hunter leaned in act to rise: