As the stern, majestic mountains,

Without error or mistake,

Were reflected in the bosom

Of that cool, pellucid lake,

So our every thought and action,

Be it deed of hate or love,

May be photographed in record

In that gallery above.

 

Life's Mystery. 

I live, I move, I know not how, nor why,

Float as a transient bubble on the air,

As fades the eventide I, too, must die;

I came, I know not whence; I journey, where?

 

The Fallen Tree. 

I passed along a mountain road,

Which led me through a wooded glen,

Remote from dwelling or abode

And ordinary haunts of men;

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