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MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS
| The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan, |
| To scare my woodland walk, |
| And frightened fancy flees, to roam |
| Where ghosts and goblins stalk. |
| The cricket's sharp, discordant scream |
| Fills mortal sense with dread; |
| More sorrowful it scarce could seem; |
| It voices beauty fled. |
| Yet here, upon this faded sod, |
| happy hours and fleet, |
| When songsters' matin hymns to God |
| Are poured in strains so sweet, |
| My heart unbidden joins rehearse; |
| I hope it's better made, |
| When mingling with the universe, |
| Beneath the maple's shade. |
Christ My Refuge
| O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind |
| There sweeps a strain, |
| Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind |
| The power of pain, |
| And wake a white-winged angel throng |
| Of thoughts, illumed |
| By faith, and breathed in raptured song, |
| With love perfumed. |
