Chapter Chapter 10 · TO F--

Beloved! amid the earnest woes

That crowd around my earthly path--

(Drear path, alas! where grows

Not even one lonely rose)--

My soul at least a solace hath

In dreams of thee, and therein knows

An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me

Like some enchanted far-off isle

In some tumultuous sea--

Some ocean throbbing far and free

With storm--but where meanwhile

Serenest skies continually

Just o'er that one bright inland smile.

1845.

* * * * *

TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart

From its present pathway part not;

Being everything which now thou art,

Be nothing which thou art not.

So with the world thy gentle ways,

Thy grace, thy more than beauty,

Shall be an endless theme of praise.

And love a simple duty.

1845.

* * * * *

Poem 11.