GEORGE FULLER Haunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youth Who sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fair Her shapes took color in thy homestead air! How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth! Magician! who from commonest elements Called up divine ideals, clothed upon By mystic lights soft blending into one Womanly grace and child-like innocence.
Teacher I thy lesson was not given in vain.
Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin; Art's place is sacred: nothing foul therein May crawl or tread with bestial feet profane.
If rightly choosing is the painter's test, Thy choice, O master, ever was the best.
1885.
MULFORD.
Author of The Nation and The Republic of God.
Unnoted as the setting of a star He passed; and sect and party scarcely knew When from their midst a sage and seer withdrew To fitter audience, where the great dead are In God's republic of the heart and mind, Leaving no purer, nobler soul behind.
1886.
TO A CAPE ANN SCHOONER Luck to the craft that bears this name of mine, Good fortune follow with her golden spoon The glazed hat and tarry pantaloon; And wheresoe'er her keel shall cut the brine, Cod, hake and haddock quarrel for her line.
Shipped with her crew, whatever wind may blow, Or tides delay, my wish with her shall go, Fishing by proxy.

Would that it might show At need her course, in lack of sun and star, Where icebergs threaten, and the sharp reefs are; Lift the blind fog on Anticosti's lee And Avalon's rock; make populous the sea Round Grand Manan with eager finny swarms, Break the long calms, and charm away the storms.
OAK KNOLL, 23 3rd mo., 1886.
SAMUEL J.TILDEN.
GREYSTONE, AUG.

4, 1886.
Once more, O all-adjusting Death! The nation's Pantheon opens wide; Once more a common sorrow saith A strong, wise man has died.
Faults doubtless had he.

Had we not Our own, to question and asperse The worth we doubted or forgot Until beside his hearse?
Ambitious, cautious, yet the man To strike down fraud with resolute hand; A patriot, if a partisan, He loved his native land.
So let the mourning bells be rung, The banner droop its folds half way, And while the public pen and tongue Their fitting tribute pay, Shall we not vow above his bier To set our feet on party lies, And wound no more a living ear With words that Death denies?
1886 OCCASIONAL POEMS EVA Suggested by Mrs.Stowe's tale of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and written when the characters in the tale were realities by the fireside of countless American homes.
Dry the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her; Of the form so soft and fair Give to earth the tender care.
For the golden locks of Eva Let the sunny south-land give her Flowery pillow of repose, Orange-bloom and budding rose.
In the better home of Eva Let the shining ones receive her, With the welcome-voiced psalm, Harp of gold and waving palm, All is light and peace with Eva; There the darkness cometh never; Tears are wiped, and fetters fall.
And the Lord is all in all.
Weep no more for happy Eva, Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her; Care and pain and weariness Lost in love so measureless.
Gentle Eva, loving Eva, Child confessor, true believer, Listener at the Master's knee, "Suffer such to come to me." Oh, for faith like thine, sweet Eva, Lighting all the solemn river, And the blessings of the poor Wafting to the heavenly shore! 1852 A LAY OF OLD TIME.
Written for the Essex County Agricultural Fair, and sung at the banquet at Newburyport, October 2, 1856.
One morning of the first sad Fall, Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall-- But on the outer side.
She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit For the chaste garb of old; He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit For Eden's drupes of gold.
Behind them, smiling in the morn, Their forfeit garden lay, Before them, wild with rock and thorn, The desert stretched away.
They heard the air above them fanned, A light step on the sward, And lo! they saw before them stand The angel of the Lord! "Arise," he said, "why look behind, When hope is all before, And patient hand and willing mind, Your loss may yet restore?
"I leave with you a spell whose power Can make the desert glad, And call around you fruit and flower As fair as Eden had.
"I clothe your hands with power to lift The curse from off your soil; Your very doom shall seem a gift, Your loss a gain through Toil.
"Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees, To labor as to play." White glimmering over Eden's trees The angel passed away.
The pilgrims of the world went forth Obedient to the word, And found where'er they tilled the earth A garden of the Lord! The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit And blushed with plum and pear, And seeded grass and trodden root Grew sweet beneath their care.
We share our primal parents' fate, And, in our turn and day, Look back on Eden's sworded gate As sad and lost as they.
But still for us his native skies The pitying Angel leaves, And leads through Toil to Paradise New Adams and new Eves! A SONG OF HARVEST For the Agricultural and Horticultural Exhibition at Amesbury and Salisbury, September 28, 1858.
This day, two hundred years ago, The wild grape by the river's side, And tasteless groundnut trailing low, The table of the woods supplied.
Unknown the apple's red and gold, The blushing tint of peach and pear; The mirror of the Powow told No tale of orchards ripe and rare.
Wild as the fruits he scorned to till, These vales the idle Indian trod; Nor knew the glad, creative skill, The joy of him who toils with God.
O Painter of the fruits and flowers! We thank Thee for thy wise design Whereby these human hands of ours In Nature's garden work with Thine.
And thanks that from our daily need The joy of simple faith is born; That he who smites the summer weed, May trust Thee for the autumn corn.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.
For he who blesses most is blest; And God and man shall own his worth Who toils to leave as his bequest An added beauty to the earth.
And, soon or late, to all that sow, The time of harvest shall be given; The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow, If not on earth, at last in heaven.
KENOZA LAKE.
This beautiful lake in East Haverhill was the "Great Pond" the writer's boyhood.

In 1859 a movement was made for improving its shores as a public park.