Man's a problem, demonstrandum;
Who can fully understand him?
Him to solve our skill surpasses,
More than Euclid's bridge of asses.

Mind and brain so closely twined,
None the boundary has assigned,
Where mind is, and where it is'nt,
In that essence fast imprisoned.

Soul and body how uniting

Who can tell the thing in writing;
How the will the muscle bendeth,

How the brain its

message sendeth.

Who can also be revealing

Where the spring-tide is of feeling,

How the heart affections enter,
Where emotion finds its centre.

Who can say where thought is growing, Perfect how the act of knowing?

Who, where fancy keeps its treasures? Who, where memory stores its pleasures?

Who can say where life is keeping

Watch and ward when we are sleeping?

Who explain the act of dreaming,
When the brain with thoughts is teeming?

I am thinking, therefore living,
That's the clue the wise are giving,

If it be not quite explaining,

It is all we can be gaining.

July 26, 1860.

Sins when subdued are instruments of grace;
Even wrath when vanquished is the root of love,
Temptations met the heart for others brace,
Until the tempted reach his home above.

Sin is a hydra-headed monstrous thing,
Spare it, its gratitude is sure to kill,
A mortal poison dwelleth in its sting,
It must be slain with unrelenting will.

Have I an enemy against my will,

And without cause or injury my foe,
Let me the man with tenfold kindness kill,
And still a further debt of kindness owe.

Cogito ergo sum.

Wrath hath a double edge, its backward stroke, Wounds him who strikes as badly as his foe; "Twere better in his hands the weapon broke, Than that he should repeat the deadly blow.

Love is the only coin which I can pay
For injuries, to satisfy the debt;

Jesus my Lord and Master showed the way,
When praying for His foes, His death He met.

July 26, 1860.

Life I measure, not by grains
From the glass which run,

Till the last one which remains
Tells the hour is done.

Not by dial in the sun,
Fastened on the wall;

Telling how the day doth run,

As the shadows fall.

Not by rod or measuring line,

Not by inch or ell,

Would I life of man define
Or its measure tell.

But by what a man has wrought

For his fellow man,

Or in action or in thought,
All the best he can.

This the measure I apply
To the life of man,
By this simple rule I try,
"Does he what he can?"

August 8, 1860.

Sally they say is mad,

Through grief, and sorrow, and weeping;

Her voice as the harp is sad,

O'er which the wind is sweeping.

She passes along with sighs,

No sidelong glances giving,

Nor needle nor distaff plies,

Nor spins to earn her living.

A tune she tries sometimes,
Sad as of one lamenting,
Yes, sad as muffled chimes,
Far off their sorrow venting.

Hope is an empty sound,

For her no bright to-morrow,
Her eyes upon the ground,

Are fixed in changeless sorrow.

Despair her heart hath sealed,
Whence hope no longer springeth,
Its cheering draught to yield,
In calm despair she singeth.

August 14, 1860.

TO GARIBALDI.

Thine is the merit of success,
The game had'st thou been losing,
A traitor thou had'st been, no less,
The nations thee accusing.

But Garibaldi, thou hast won
A name, a fame undying;