To My Sister,

With a copy of "The Supernaturalism Of New England."     Dear Sister! while the wise and sage     Turn coldly from my playful page,     And count it strange that ripened age     Should stoop to boyhood's folly;     I know that thou wilt judge aright     Of all which makes the heart more light,     Or lends one star-gleam to the night     Of clouded Melancholy.     Away with weary cares and themes!     Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!     Leave free once more the land which teems     With wonders and romances     Where thou, with clear discerning eyes,     Shalt rightly read the truth which lies     Beneath the quaintly masking guise     Of wild and wizard fancies.     Lo! once again our feet we set     On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,     By lonely brooks, whose waters fret     The roots of spectral beeches;     Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er     Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor,     And young eyes widening to the lore     Of faery-folks and witches.     Dear heart! the legend is not vain     Which lights that holy hearth again,     And calling back from care and pain,     And death's funereal sadness,     Draws round its old familiar blaze     The clustering groups of happier days,     And lends to sober manhood's gaze     A glimpse of childish gladness.     And, knowing how my life hath been     A weary work of tongue and pen,     A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men,     Thou wilt not chide my turning     To con, at times, an idle rhyme,     To pluck a flower from childhood's clime,     Or listen, at Life's noonday chime,     For the sweet bells of Morning!