should feel a listener in the wind; My joy—its echo in the caves should be! Fool, if ye will—Fool, for sweet sympathy! We are dead groups of matter when we hate; But when we love we are as gods!—Unto The gentle fetters yearning, through each state And shade of being multiform, and through All countless spirits (save of all the sire)—    Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire. Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade, From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek, Who the fine link between the mortal made, And heaven's last seraph—everywhere we seek Union and bond—till in one sea sublime Of love be merged all measure and all time!     Friendless ruled God His solitary sky; He felt the want, and therefore souls were made, The blessed mirrors of his bliss!—His eye No equal in His loftiest works surveyed; And from the source whence souls are quickened, He Called His companion forth—ETERNITY! 

             ELYSIUM. Past the despairing wail—    And the bright banquets of the Elysian vale Melt every care away! Delight, that breathes and moves forever, Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river! Elysian life survey! There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads, His merry west-winds blithely leads The ever-blooming May! Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the hours, In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers, And truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day. And joy to-day and joy to-morrow, But wafts the airy soul aloft; The very name is lost to sorrow, And pain is rapture tuned more exquisitely soft. Here the pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb, And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim, The load he shall bear never more; Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams, Lulled with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams, The fields, when the harvest is o'er. Here, he, whose ears drank in the battle roar, Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind A thunder-storm,—before whose thunder tread The mountains trembled,—in soft sleep reclined, By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore, Hears the stern clangor of wild spears no more! Here the true spouse the lost-beloved regains, And on the enamelled couch of summer-plains Mingles sweet kisses with the zephyr's breath. Here, crowned at last, love never knows decay, Living through ages its one bridal day, Safe from the stroke of death! 

             THE FUGITIVE. The air is perfumed with the morning's fresh breeze, From the 

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