MABEL MARTIN. PROEM.

We dreamed it over, while the thrushes made

Songs of their own, and the great pine-trees laid

On warm noonlights the masses of their shade.

And she was with us, living o'er again

Her life in ours, despite of years and pain,—

The Autumn's brightness after latter rain.

Beautiful in her holy peace as one

Who stands, at evening, when the work is done,

Glorified in the setting of the sun!

Her memory makes our common landscape seem

Fairer than any of which painters dream;

Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream;

For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold

Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends told,

And loved with us the beautiful and old.