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<^*/0///c. eM,aiMtaw

THE

Masqde of Minstrels

AND OTHER PIECES, CHIEFLT

IN VERSE.

BY TWO BROTHERS.

BANGOR .
Benjamin A. Burk, Printek.

1SS7.

161448

i/^'

Entiiid actortliiij; to Art of Conjfrt'ss, in the year 1SS7, by

ARTHUR J. LOCKllART,

In the OHlif of the. Librarian of Congress, at Washington. !>. C.

.s:@)N-

«=^f^

^^osu

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTORY NOTES.

Scan sharply, Reader! then, if thy sijjht j!ratlicrs no haziness, if thy heart
y-ives no consent to wiiat thou seest, turn iroxn these unprofitable pages.
For thee tliere are l)ettcr books, in plenty.

Or, if thou art one of the critic folk, whose business it is to help or hinder
in the jjreat hijrlnvay of letters; I would say this: So many reasons, not
patent to the author, may be found for approving or condemning what is
here, its fate, with you, cannot be forecast. Read several pages candidly,
lH'ft)re speaking: if, indeed, you intend to honor us with your notice. Ileiein
we neither erect a shield against censure, nor indite a petition for praise.

And ye, who are friends, (for to you I have commended these uncertain
musings, the solace of many an hour lived during the past fifteen years,)
allot a quiet perusal to this, my book of songs. I have taken cf>unsel once of
myself, and again of the fancied V ok, many times, or I should never have set
about the labor and expense of printing.

Alick Lke, by the first plan and intention, originated at an early date, and
has had later touches. It goes to show the eflect of an unconquercd sorrow in
an aimless life. Professor John Wilst)n*s story, '■'Ltiry Of The /'olJ,"
furnished the suggestion.

ARTHUR J. LOCKHAKT.

Ea.st Corinth, Maine, July J5th, 1SS7.

^"^^^^^^

■^

CONTENI'S.'

PAGE.

Proem.... 5

The Masque of Minstrels 7

Alice Lee 17

At The Grave of a Poet 57

The Enthusiast 65

Burns Remembered 73

An Afterthought 77

A Dream of Heaven 79

The Prophet S6

Destiny S9

Praise 92

Jerusalem 93

Snow in October 95

On Islesboro 100

Guilt in Solitude 103

*Sir Richard Grenville 106

Morning iii

'''Bird on the Sea 113

Our Heavenly Fatherland 118

To M^ Father lai

Acadie . 13,^

Mv Place 12S

'''The Retrospect 1 29

Gaspereau 143

An Interlude 154

MOODS AND FANTASIES.

Aduma 157

A Fantasy 160

'^Talking Dv the Sea 161

On Lake Winnepisaukee 164

The Hill 166

The Maiden Eve 169

Hearts , 170

Arrows 172

Ambition ,... 173

Song 1 75

Shelley 176

May 177

"'Wordsworth iSo

Contemplation iSi

A Spring Son^ 1S3

The Prologue in Heaven 1S5

*In Solemn Vision 1S7

"'Keats 191

I. The poems indicated by an asterisk were written by my brother, Bur-
ton W. Lockhart, now of Sumeld, Conn.

CONTENTS.

iii

An)(el8 • 193

Awakeninif >94

Ili^hand Low 19(1

A Slay Son jf 19S

The Violet 99

A Rnundy Cheer for the Farmer aoo

Rydalmere 30i

(rod in Nature aoj

Frostwork 305

*Thc Singer 3o6

A Poet's Wish aoS

The Daisy 209

*Song 311

Silent Speech 213

Love's Beautiful Sphere 2\±

Aurora .••• 3io

Kain Heard at Early Morning 3iS

To Thee The Love of Woman Hath Gone Down 319

Memories of *' II Penseroso" .• 331

Song • 334

Unseen Visitants 325

*Lines, Written in an Album 337

Summer 33S

Love in Solitude 3ji

To a Strawberry Blossom 333

Goethe 336

The Lady In The Picture 337

With Burns 339

Solitude 241

Acrostic 343

Song 244

Ky The Riverside 346

To-Morrow 349

To S. 1 251

A Monodv.. 353

Stella ...". 254

(filbert Haven 256

On Bishop Janes 259

The Burial of Garfield 360

'^In Memoriam 262

A Poet 264

Our Three Sonsji^** 266

Dirge 269

SONGS OK MEMORY AND HOME.

Proem 273

Departed Days 274

♦Evening At Home 277

The Children's Voices 2S0

Sister Alice 2S1

?:choofan Old Ballad 2S3

Vacation 284

I n Absence 2S«

♦The Old Home 287

Baby's Future 293

The Boys in Winter 29;

♦A Home Song 20S

CONTENTS.

Hills of Minas ,^oo

Assurancf 30J

V'iile .^05

To Mv Mother ,P7

Tliu Marriage Morning 309

A Madrigal. 311

^Fragment of An £pistle 31 i

Evey 3'4

Wislies 310

*A Prayer 317

Kecognition 31S

The Fadeless Beauty 319

Waiting 321

The Answer 323

'''To Ahbie in Florida 324

A Now Year Reverie 326

Na;nia 329

Angel-Whispers 331

SONGS OF ASPIRATION AND KNl>EAVOK.

Auxiliurn Ab Alto 335

Good Cheer 33S

340

''■Life's Noblest Heights , .... 342

Coming.... 343

A Cry from the I' nemplr)ve(l Laborer 345

The Wine 34S

The Ilefornier's Hymn 350

Better '351

A Wish For Remembrance 355

Dens Descensus 358

The Universal Hope 3?x)

■ 30.1

■ 305
307

• 309
311
3'J

31ft

3>7
3«S

3 '9

32'

323

324

326

329

340
342

343

345

34S

3SO

351

355

35S

3''o

cMic^j.Jf^l

Cl/it',

PROBM.

J^OVER of mouiitnin. field and grove,

Hojirt-iioiirlsh'd song, and chord sublime;
Thou wilt not scorn the steps that aimless rove,
Nor the fond cherisher of his own rhyme ;—

Who. facing to the new-ris'n sun,

Or following his westering way,
Siiigs; or in shaded nooks, where clear brooks run
In webbed light, fashions forth an idle lay;—

From opening buds, and bird-tones sweet,

Who treasureth harmonious cheer;
And to himself all carols doth repeat.

Striving to win th^ refined, fastidious ear.

And, haply, 'tis not all iu vain

lie broodeth minstrel-pages o'er,
As he would emulate full many a strain

Dear to the Muse, on the Past's golden shore ; —

That he has mused on many a rhyme.

And many a graceful fancy, penned
In memory's olden, hallowed mornlng-fime,

By unrenown'd ones — brother, sister, friend : —

Whose voices trembled while they sung.

Wlio l)athed with sweetest tears their lyres.
O. my faint heart! their faces still are young:

Bright are their setting suns, their evening fires !

Perchance some friend, with kindly thought.

May these obscure memorials trace.
When he who loved the Muse so well, sees not

The cheering smile on Natin-e's morning face.

Strains long-remember'd, oft admired —

All plainings and rejoicings clear —
Whatever moved him earliest, or inspired.

He deems have Jeft their >velcoiqe in^press here,

THK MASQUE OK MINSTRELS.

|HEN came a company of wandering minstrels, without
singing robes and garlands, up to the gate of the
castle, which was opened readily enough to receive them.
They were now onlj' in the court-yard; but they went on
— their harps in their hands — strengthened by the counte-
nances of one another, and unabashed by the mighty band
who had gone in before them. They were late in coming,
and the choir of singers was already full ; but of this they
thought no ill, and when questioned of their act, they ans-
wered with a proud humilitj\ They were near the door of
the high hall, and in answer to their summons, it was thrown
open, so that a herald stood before them.

HERALD.

And who be ye?

FIRST MINSTREL.

We be also of the Minstrelsy ; we be Apprentices of the
Muses; Secretaries of Love; .Slaves of Beauty; Apostles
of Desire; Disciples of Trutli ; Children of Nature; Fol-
lowers of Aspiration; Servants of Song. We be uncrowued
kings and queens in the realms of Music, coming to claim
and win our sceptres. Crowns have been won and worn by
others. Admit us.

THE MASQUE OF MINSTBELS.

HERALD.

Nay ; ye claim too largely. Whose sons be ye, and whose
daughters?

SECOND MINSTREL.

We be sons and daughters of fathers who were never
cowards, and of mothers who were never ashamed; who
loved valor and virtue even as their children love music.

HERALD.

And whence came ye?

THIRD MINSTREL.

Out from the place of Light, lying along tlie slcirt of
Shadow; from silent spaces of the Divinity; and again,
from the courts where the Stars give voice, as well as shin-
ing; and in all our journey the way has been from joy.
through sorrow, to peace, and often along a land of loveli-
ness and singing.

HERALD.

Hast thou a message for the soul ? What wouldest thou
say?

THIRD MINSTREL.

O Soul! listen to that divinity which is within thee — the
voice, silent before the sceptic sneer, and that cannot be
heard by doubting Indifterence; and listen to the Divinity
who is above thee — the greater than thou — that calleth unto
thee. Be not thou incredulous unto the Voice, not disobe-
dient unto the heavenly Vision. If thou dost not listen, to
obey, thou art lost. Thou hast been led to belie thy nature,
to deny thy identity : thou wert meant to harbor with the
archangel ; but thou crouchest with the dog, and crawlest
with the worm. Thou hast not feet, alone, on which to halt,
and stumble; thou hast also, wings, wherewith to fly.
Thou carriest, within thyself, a touchstone and an alembic ;
thou canst transmute tears to jewels; thou canst force a

THE MASQUE OF MINSTBELS.

tvere never
med; who
music.

ii skirt of
UKl again,
II as shin-
from joy.
of loveli-

dest thou

thee— the

uiuot be

i)iviuity

oth unto

t disobe-

listen, to

i nature,

with the

cravviest

to halt,

to fly.

lembic ;
force a

»l

sweet life-blood from the granite rock, Difficulty, and make
its huge bulk thy stepping-stone to Power. Thou canst out-
watch thy sorrows, and with joyous eyes see the bubble-
stars melt on the flood of daybreak ; with steadfastness and
patience thou mayest abide thy shadowy terra,

•• smoothing the raven down
Of darkness, till it smiles."

Forsake all thy low ideals ; cast off the outworn plumage
of thy spirit; seize thine inalienable right; possess all that
belongs to thee, from the lowest vale of Tempe to the
empyrean. Of thougiit, and hope, and courage, and high
emotion, take thy allotted portion. So near art thou allied
to the gods, thou canst do what thou wilt.* Let no one do
thy work, or claim thy crown. Strike glad hands with thj'^
appointed duties; and, above all, be true and pitiful, for
such is God, who is thy Father. Then, O Soul ! it shall be
well with thee !

HERALD.

Methinks thou speakest well, concerning this matter.
What will ye here?

FIRST MINSTREL.

We would enter in to stand before our liord and Lady,
among the accepted kings and queens of song.

HERALD.

What title have ye? All who stand within have shining
fronts and far-heard voices. How come ye without robes
: (1 garlands?

SECOND MINSTREL.

We have harps and voices, well attuned; what ask ye

I. So close is grandeur to our dust,
So noar is God to man ;
When Duty wliispers low: 'Thou must,'
The youth replies. 'I can.'— Emerson.

THE MASQUE OF MINSTRELS.

beside? Came any, within, having more, at the earliest?
Admit us.

HERALD.

How can ye be lieard? Their voices come together lil^e a
rush of melodious storms, and like the roll of thunder over
the flow of mightj' rivers; tlieir harps have the music of
winds and ocean waves in their strings of gold. Ye will be
as a chirping brood of wrens in a forest of nightingales.

THIRD MINSTRP:L.

We ask not to be heard on our first entrance : we will wait
for the eye of our Lord and I^ady: we ask only to sit at
their feet who wear the robes and garlands, and drink their
spirits in mirthful or mournful music, till we have learned
CO be worthy.

HERALD.

How consist your lofty spoken thoughts with this humil-
ity?

SECOND MINSTIiEL.

We think not highly of ourselves in Art, but feel the bent
of our nature. These great have known themselves, before
they were known of others, and this, reverently; for the
greater are around them, and above them, the unapproach-
able, which beckoneth unto us. We dare not be false to
ourselves, to come with trembling, professing a base
modesty, since we be genuine. It is only feeble and impo-
tent singers who come to their failures : and who but he who
only pretends himself strong, deserves to fail?

HERALD.

But dread ye not the woes of the minstrel? Why will ye
«ing, {)>«''l wrung bosoms, and wretchedness and hunger?
The c ju of song have often been unhappy. Remember

THE MASQUE OF MINSTRELS.

le earliest?

the Bard of Brlstowa;* think of him wlio dwelt on Doon,*
and mingled sigliing^ with liis clearest warbles. Ask of him
who sang of Paradise.'' and the chanter who painted Virtue
as never before."* Let such pains as these be spared.

FIRST MINSTREL.

Tlie portion of the bard is liis; it has been given. Great
pains and joys are in his n.ature. He cannot forbear, for
singing is not liis sorrow, but his release. He must be
scorclicd by an inward lire if he sing not; for music is his
call and vocation. Yet call not the minstrel unhappy; nor
think him miserable, whose outward lot is hard. Must we
choose again, our choice were liere. Ours are great immun-
ities. Joyous is Spirit! Wondrous, this necromancer.
Imagination, with his vivid, far-seeing eyes, with whom
Reason shall sit. upon an equal throne.

And if some bard be foi"- nihappy, charge not his misery

1. Chatterton.

2. Burns.

3. Dante,

4. Need we pity these twin sinjjcrs, of jjlooni and gflory? Need wc compas-
sionate Milton, when aire, povertj^, loneliness and neglect were his?— wlien
the darker days found Inni solitary,

' In darkness, and with dangers coniposs'd round?'
lie needs not our pity. Almost any so-called happy man is more pitiable.
No man who ever lacked or lost had more intrinsic and splendid compensa-
tion. This grandest figure on the wide plain of the centuries, had in it a soul
that swept all chords of etherial music with profoundest harmony: therein
dwelt a spirit — the temple of the virtues, austere without, perchance, but
tenanted witliin by all gracefullest forms, and sufl'usedwith color and un-
speakable radiancy —

" A part and parcel of the purest sky."

Such a m.an is better fitted to move us to awe, than pity; and such a life
might glorify the lowliest lot. If highest moral and mental worth, and duty
bravely done; if to have " kept pure the holy forms of young Imagination,''
makes happiness, then he, who had " fallen on evil davs, and evil tongues,"
had, after all, ideal blessedness. Human sympathy — tlie warm hand-clasp —
friendship — love, might be dear to him ; but no man was ever better qualihed
to live without the habitual presence of his friends. His life was to its latest
devoted to high thinking and lofty singing; and in these things few could
bring him fellowship. His life was lifted up, and set apart; " His mind
Became a mansion of all lovely forms;
His memory * * * a dwelfing-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies-" — Wordsworth.

THE MASQUE OF MINSTRELS.

upon the Muse ; since her prerogative is to complete his
felicity.

HERALD.

Of what will ye sing, when my Lady layeth tribute on your
harps?

THIRD MINSTREL.

1 will weave a musical web of dreams; I will wile the
hearts of my Lord and Lady with finest fancies, and harmo-
nious visionings, that may carry, with completeness, the
poet's deepest meanings.

FIRST MINSTREL.

I will sing out of the affections, a ballad of the love of
womanhood and childhood, of country and home. I will
celebrate the deeds of good and brave men ; my songs maj'
cheer them while they live, and glorify and lament them
when they die.

SECOND MINSTREL.

My heart shall win its music from the unseen, and breathe
of infinitude; it shall incite to aspiration and endeavor.
My singing shall be of the soul — the deeds and hopes of
eternity. My thoughts shall move with the spheres and
circles of the heavens ; shall mount upward, past seraph and
archangel, to the Divine and Perfect Man.

HERALD.

And what shall be the chief guerdon of your singing?
Ask ye gold ?

ALL.

Nay, not gold.

HERALD.

What will ye, then.

FIRST MINSTREL.

That we mav be known for what we are.

THE MASQUE OF MIN STEELS.

THIKD MINSTREL.

That we maj' be admitted for love, and prized for what

we are.

SECOND MINSTREL.

Ratlipr, that everywhere our brothers may be better for
what we are.

HERALD.

Enter, and win your crowns ; mingle with these mighty,
and find yonr places.

I beh(;ld liow tlie Herald went before them, opening a
heavy brazen door, into a great hall, that blazed with light,
snch as purity and beauty of mind alone could endure to
look upon, and which clearlj' showed all things, whether of
fair or foul. I saw how the Minstrels went into this bright-
ness, like a Hock of birds into sunset, and had a glimpse of
that high throne and kingly presence, with the throng of
laurelled singers. But just as their music burst upon my
ear, the door closed, and I saw no more.

When the moon was low. and with the fading of the morn-
ing star. I saw coming forth out of the castle the train of
Minstrels, crowned and elate, from the royal festival : but
one wander<'d apart, disconsolately, and made away beneath
the many-shadowing oaks of the demesne ; his head dropped
low upon his bosom, and his harp hanging carelessly in his
hand. Soon I i)erceived him the leader of that wandering
company who had lately entered ; and, drawing nearer, I
beheld him tearful, and heard his sigh«^, and the low mur-
mur of his voice as he went his way: ^'' There be first who
shall be last: my brethren have their garlands ; but I am
uncrowned."

Presently I saw the Herald hastening behind to overtake
him. and, as he came up. he looked pityingly, and I heard
him speak in a gentle manner,
2

THE MASQUE OF MIN STEELS.

HKKALD.

Why art thou nnhai)i)y? Is not son*; to thee consohition
and reward?

FIHST MINSTIJKL.

That which was my pride in solitude, lias become, amid
courts, my shame.' There I liave no voice; \ny spirit is
silent, my skill deserts me.

IIEHALD.

What of these, thy companions, who went in with thee,
and came out joyously?

FIRST 3II\STKEL.

They could stand among men, and blenched not from the
front of kings. But I was formed in solitude, and belong
to that, alone. Ignorant of oiu'selves. and of the world, we
sigh for our undoing. In my privacy and vernal encliant-
ment, and while I trod the sun)mer fields. I deemed I could
fetch the glories that fell around me there, into the world,
and to the places where great men sit for counsel and judg-
ment.

IIEKALD.

And how fared it with thee?

FIR8T MINSTREL.

The aureole-hope that hung lik(^ a crown over the brow of
yesterday, has melted awaj'. Ah, that I had been content
to nourish my dreams where tirst they rose to charm me!

HERALD.

They did not hear you?

FIRST MINSTREL.

But had they heard me in my native shades, before cages

I. My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. — Oold smith.

THE MASQUE OF MINSTIiELS.

consolation

II with thee,

)efore casres

were known to nie, or I had seen the j^litter of palacos. they
had listened. But I have lost, and shall learn tiiateharni no
more.

IIKHALI).

Thou speakest in tone as of one mourning the dead : my
lieart is full of pity.

IIUST MINSTHKL.

Then I will speak to thee, sinec thou wilt listen. Mus;e
hath from my freshest years been a delightsome phantom,
and till now I have followed her. She lias been too mueh
my joy; she brought me to run after rainbows — to pine for
a minstrers guerdon.

HKUALU.

Thou yieldest to misfortune too easily.

FIHST MINSTHEL.

1 was soon taught to yield : 1 was a bird whose wing was
early broken ; and when 1 could no longer sport with blithe
companions — when the sun stared at me, lying panting on
the grass, and I could no longer rise to brush the green
leaves with my plumes, I counted my life worthless. But
the}' put me in the nest; and because it was snug and warm,
I grew content, artd gave myself to singing. Human love
was my minisier, and my heart had cheer, for from the dis-
tant groves I had many a friendly warble; and 1 was
ennilous even of the nightingales. Whatever note came, an
echo was stirred within me; whatever nobly-pleasing hope
or dream arose. 1 set it to my song; whatever golden leaf
of fancy lluttered from the skills to me was my adoinment;
and every sweet thought was laid inward on my heart. Amid
pains 1 had ecstacies, and my si)irit grew and flourished.

HERALD.

Alas! Why was that blest abode deserted?

I fj

FIRST MINSTRKL.

The Autumn tempests came ; a strong wind arose, and I
was blown out of my covert. I l(»oked around me, and
beheld a wide, strange world, full of pi ofane noises, and un-
musical souls, hurrying to and fro. Tlius was 1 swept out
of my home nest, and lodged far from th<^ place where my
spirit best could grow : then grew my singing too mournful,
so men would not pause to hear it. I must soon bid the
harp farewell.

HERALD.

Nay, take thee cheer. Win back the blessedness into thj'
life, that belonged to thine earlier revels. Song tinds her
home everywhere, and has in all places a temple ready for
her occupation. Conquer thy despair, and tliou shalt feel
within thy bosom the stirring of new liopes, tliat shall not
fail thee, and yearnings of the sort tliat cannot die. Gather
the scattered relics of tliy mind from tliese past years; for
the task will save thy spirit from despondency, and separate
thee from thy sadness.

I saw that after they had conversed together, they parted ;
and as the Minstrel moved away under the deep shade,
I heard him singing: "Ah, sweet river of Peace! Whither
flow the gladness of thy waters? I follow thee — to what
mountains of vision, through what vales of quietude, and by
what entangling luxuriance of shade! Thither, O mine
angel ! ever lead me, from the sun unshaded and the many-
voiced discordance, and the places where my heart and
home are not! Ah, tranquil peace-river! lead me, for I
follow thee forever — forever ! "

ALICE LEK.
I.

O love ! sweet love ! that makes the bright eyes blind ;
O love ! sweet love ! that when the world was young

Forged the soft links tiiat will may not unbind :
O love ! sweet love I that in a world of love

Makes brightness dark, and out of darkness joy.

— IIUNTER DUVAR.

|0W sweet, at sunset's golden hour,

To tread these shades — this glimmering green,
When cheerly from yon black'ning tower.

The bells make glad the listening scene ; —
To leave the merry groups that go,
In rural pastime, to and fro.
And walk along the church-yard way

Beneath yon yew tree's sombre shade ;
Or by yon leaning stone delay,

With vines and mosses overlaid,
Where, in an earlier year, two graves were made.

For th(!re I met an aged man

Whose step was slow, whose cheek was wan ;

Whose sad and faded eyes were full

Of tears, whose looks were sorrowful :

He paused beneath the budding shade.

And where the church its shadow laid

ALICE LEE.

At siuisct season, yoator e'en,

Kestiiiji^ upon Iiih staif was seen,

Beside a mound just overlaid

VVitli tints of Spring's returning green.

Unseen, 1 nearer drew to liear

Ttic grief unmeant for human car;

No step, irreverent or rude,

Jarred on tlie holy >a(ditude :

As bare lie mad<; his agcti head,

And bent him o'er tlie turfy b«Ml,

These were tiie longing words he said:

'•My Love! — my Aliee! it is long.

And very weary since you diiMl,
Since from your lip ebbed back the song.

And from your (jIumjU th«; <;rimson tide :
I lightly smiled to Ioj»V(; your side.

To lose you when I loved you most, —
To lose who would have been my bride.

Had not my love been early crossed :
Yet are you ever, eoor lost?
No, surely thou shalt soon be given
To me again in Love's own heaven !
I shall beliohl tliee now, ere long,

With raptured heart, antl glowing eye,
VVliere sorrow yields to heavenly song,

And where true lovers never die."

Long time he paused, and bent him there,
Till twilight tilled the sliadowy air;
Then, turning, me he lirst descried.
As almost standing at his side:
His mien grew stern : •• And who," lie said,
'•' Invades tlie slumber of tlie dead?
Wlio comes his presence to intrude
On sorrow's sacred solitude?"

ALICE LEE.

Uo would liMVo iMovtMl awjiy: — "Forgive,"

I warmly siil<l. " I alno llvo

In fcUowsliip witli love and ^ilof ;

'I'liy i'onlldcnco shall brin;; r«'ll«'f :

No wnnton footstep bion^ht me ntMir

Tln' sci'H't of your soul to hear.

Until your di'cp patliotic plaint

Detained me with a jstvon;^ restraint.

Then to the sympathetle ^low

Which I for you have learned to know.

Yield, and the friendly hand bt'stow."

The hand of confidenee he pive.

And led me slowly from the grave.

To where, beneath his cottage shade,

A rustic seat of roots was made;

Then, resting, he began to tell

The woes once writ in sorrow's chronicle.

I was a student, no'vly come

To this retired neighborhood.
To tind the (^harm of cottage-home,

And breezy hill, and stream, and wood;

So. 'neath the roof of Farmer Lee,

Came rest, and sweet security.

And the delights of solitude.

I ranged the sylvan worhl without ;

Angled the stream for spotted trout.

Or found the nests, the trees among.

Where otinfrtorinnrju.^^i^j.iaa fnni-.^.i tlicir youug;

But soon I found my best content

Where gentle Alice came and went;

My recluse mind, my silent mood

Melted like mists of morn, pursued

By arrows of the archer Light.

When Hrst she came upon my sight.

ALICE LEE.

Her hand o'erdrooped with j^arden flowers :

Her hand ! — yc beauteous, plastic powers! —

It might adorn the guelder rose.

The fairest eartlily flower that grows ;

Nor shame the crocus, dipt in yellow flame ;

Or, (wet at morn, on its green stem)

The snowdrop's pure, delicious gem ;

Or other beauties she might bring

That figure o'er the robe of Spring:

O white and delicate hand ! ye shine

In memory still : and O ye flowers
That wreathed her fingers, fairy-fine,

Yo charmed me first in those resplendent liours !

O eloquent eyes ! your silent mirth
Left not the like for me on earth ;
O form, so lithe to glide away,
Like sun-lit cloud of summer day!

voice of music ! — laughter-free !
My heart applauded inwardly.

When down the stairs each note I heard,

Blithe as the carol of a bird.

Or running water in a wood :

My heart had lain asleep until

She woke, it with a musical thrill;

For, surely, in her happiest hours.

Hers were a Saint Cecilia's powers!

For, not when vernal woods rejoice,

And harmony informs the trees

With sound's ascensions, and degrees

Of liquid, swelling symphonies,

Such rain of joy, such wild enchantment showers :-

Before I heard it, I declare,

1 sometimes hummed a half forgotten air.

ALICE LEE,

"Beware I beware!" the clamoring rooks

Called from the breezy elms outside :

That voice of music never died

From springing of the dewy dawn

Till evening was a glorj' gone ;

Or, if it ceased my ear to fill,

It floated on in memory still ;

It rippled o'er my tedious books,

It tangled with my web of thought ;

I hesitated, and forgot,

And hourly read — I knew not what,

From morn till eventide.

For Love had come, with viewless wings,

To hover on th' enaraor'd air.
To seek my heart's most secret springs.

And dwell with soft enchantment there.

Till all the world looked doubly fair :
The lisping of the cluster'd leaves

Had deeper, sweeter power to move ;
The swallows, twittering 'neath the eaves.

Blithely express'd my thougl^ts of love ;
I saw in bright poetic hues

The plainest forms of earth arrayed —
Saw diamonds in the morning dews.

And pictures in each flowery glade ;
The pigeons, looking from their cotes.
Now coo'd from mellower, softer throats ;
And the deep blue of sun-bright skies.
Beamed only with the lustre of her eyes,

She came, and went— a gleam of light-^
A wing'd delight — a gracious thing !

She had a busy bird-like flight,
A motion like ft sunlit spriug,
3

ALICE LEE.

Whose glancing waters drink tlie light.
Ah, she was one man well might woo!

A well of chcerfnlnoss — von luight
Have fonnd her grave and serious, too :
And when we had for company

The high assembly of the stars,

Or moonlight through the lattice bars
Whitening the floor, her purity
Bose stately thiongh the pearly stream.
Beauteous as an angel in a dream.

When, in the prosp'rous summer time,

After the setting of the sun,
The bells rang out their sweetest chime,

To tell his golden hours were done :
While o'er the quiet valley lay
The lights and shades of i)arting day.
And from the garden, underneath

My window, came t\w. scent(;d air,
AVith rose and honeysuckle's breath ; —
Then Alice, free from household care,
Came to my side with sweet content.
And gave my heart its element :
Some little nested bird might chirp.

Some careless leaves might rustling stir,
Or if slie brush'd her idle harp,

'Twas all as if it silent were ;
I only saw her much-loved form,
I only heard her bosom warm —

The beating heart, so rich in her:
Feeling swelled like a river strong,
That found its earliest vent in song;
Through faltering lips impassioned words made way,

Her listening, longing ear to reacli ;
I bound her to my life for aye,

ALICE LEE.

With cords of silver speecli :
Rising, she laid her hand in mine.

Nor soon dSA it remove : —
O heavenly rapture, half divine,

Of snch requited love I

Who could behold her, and not love her?

And many hailed Ikm- li<^ht afar,
Deeming that in the heavens above her

There shone no purer, lovelier star.
She was no reigning vilhige belle.

But modest as a violet
Or wind-llowtM-; like imn in cell
She wont in solitude to dwell ;

She courted not man's ga/e, and yet
A loval heart might love her well.
I've loved her long and well, I ween.
Whom I have n(;itiier heard nor seen
Since one sad parting iiour befell :
The wearying years successive flow;

And yet \ know.
Her grave shall chan^^e from white to green.
The sky shall change from bright to gray,

For many a day.
Before that love can weai" away.

Not eyes mon; deep, nor face more fair,
(,'an lieavcn-tangbt poet paint or sing;

And a rare ligiit wa>; playiuii" tlicre.
As from an angcTs outspread wing;

It made me deem her sweeter far

Than half th<! lov<?s of poets are.

Yon cannot wonder, if yon heed.

That fair in mind are fair in deed;

While features, tiiat at tirst seem dull.

ALICE LEE.

In God's high light grow beautiful.
There Is a grace all undefined —

Not starry eyes, nor queenly brows —
The presence of a tranquil mind,

A heart to which cold beauty bows ;
For Art's perfections lose control,
Uncrown 'd by a superior soul.

A light of worlds that are not ours

Dwelt, fathomless, within her eyes.
With hues of all unfading flowers,
Giving of bliss a sweet surmise —
A holy hint of Paradise.
Her singing took a mournful strain.
As half of joy, and half of pain ;
And oft I noted shades of sadness
Fleeting across her features' gladness,
Whilo she would answer some caress
With sighing — I should love her less :
As if she did forbode the blow
That broke my life, and laid her low ;
As if, before she would depart,

She wished to pity my distress.
And soothe a hungry, broken heart.

On, on each balmy moment went,
Too heavenly-sweet ! too swiftly spent !
And when her brown locks might eclipse

Her speaking face. I brushed them back,
That she no charm should seem to lack,
Nor rose-tint upon cheeks or lips.
You smile at an old man who thus
About a maid grows garrulous ;
Yet pardon grant the man of tears.
Whose sorrows have forerun his years ;

ALICE LEE.

The dream that gilds my earthly night

Is but this dream of past delight,

That never can be real again.
Then bid me not from fondest speech refrain :
In all my weary round of loss and life
I never yet have called my Alice wife ;
But, while she lived, our mutual loves were pure
As the clear stream that wandered by her door,
Or each bright crystal bead of showers, that drips
Full in the sun, from yon eaves' leaden lips :
Bear with my doting : — 'though now silver-gray.
These locks were dark ere that disastrous day.
My love remains the same, or deeper grown,
Than when I felt that Alice was my own.
And, with a rapture that no tongue can speak.
Pressed warm affection's seal on brow and cheek.

Return! ah, ye swift-turning, happy days I
Come back in memory, and remain.

Time, when it seemed as if the golden haze
Of midsummer crept o'er my brain.
To thi!ik I loved— O fond amaze !

And was belov'd again !
Time, when no sign or shade of care
Came near to touch me anywhere ;

When Eden had a later, balmier birth.

And Love's best Paradise seemed on the earth ;
And when, 'nJd dreams tiiat made the night
A shadowy garden of delight,

Stars and flowers did balm distil.
As we loitered 'neath their light,
'^lid their upturned faces bright.
On the richly-wooded hill.

Then often, stealing out of doors,
I wandered lonely down the vale,

I, I

ALICE LEE.

Beneath eacli shadow-spreading tree,
Slowly, as o'er a summer sea

Moves out a bark with silvery sail,
From its safe-sheltering shore :
When, musingly, I bore with me.
Vacantly turning its pages o'er,

Some minstrel's old romantic tale,

Of squire, and knight and paladin ;

Or book where bard had garnered in
His fancy's flowery store.
Then in some leaf-embowered retreat,
Beside the brook I found my seat.
Where o'er the shelvy ledge it fell.

Scattering its spray in frolic wild.

As leaps and shouts a sportive child.
With laughter long and musical;
While on my mossy couch was made
A chequer-work of light and shade.

Or when, ere sunset's milder hour
Hushes the bird, and folds the flower;
While yet the sun's declining ray
Tempers the too refulgent day,
I entered through its open door,
And trod the great barn's threshing-floor :
The coolness of that ample place
Seemed gift of some superior grace

For fane or temple fltter:
There oft I dreamed an hour away,
Trone on the clover-scented ha}'.
Watching the cobwebs hang aloof,
And waver on the darkened roof;
While swift-wing'd swallows come and go,
LiLc arrows shot from hunter's bow,
Or flutter, circling to and fro,

ALICE LEE.

With many a chirp and twitter:
And so the visions doli<|^hted nie.
Of joys that never were to be.
Until the evening dews were falling,
And I heard the sweetest of voices calling.

■\

II.

Her brow was like the snow-drift,
Her throat was like the swan,

And her face it was the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on.

Like dew on the cowan lying
Was the fa' of her fairy feet.

And like winds of summer sighing
Her voice was low and sweet.

•' Love, the beautiful and brief!"

-Annie Laurie.

—Schiller.

LOVE, the beautiful and brief!'
Her place is not upon the earth ;
Awhile she goeth meekly forth,
To cheer the hearts and homes of grief :
She is too pure and beautiful

To walk with misery, hand in hand,
And her sweet homesick soul is full

Of sighing for her native land :
And so she lingers sadly on,
Then spreads her white wing, and is gone-
'0 Love the beautiful and brief!'

With such a sweetly-plaintive tone
1 heard my Alice lowly singing,

While from the meadow, newly mown,
She saw them homeward bringing,

ALICE LEE.

At the golden close of day,

The latest load of fragrant hay.
''And why." the hrowii-fat'od fanner said,
Strokhig his innocent daughter's head,
"Wliy that tone and word of grief?
Nor life, nor lov(! with thee he hrief !"
She sniiled. and sighed, and turned away,
Wliile evening changed from gold to gray.

To gather dust I cast aside
My books; nor was I satisfied
To glean from musty pages long.
When life was story, dream, and song.
On yonder hill, so smooth and dry,
I found a living poesy,

Through the long sunnner afteinoon.
There Alice often came with me;

And oft th' companionable moon
Rose on our walks, ere we had found
Completeness of oui happj' round,
Back at the farmstead. Soon would she
Bring in the fragrant, steaming tea ;
While curds and golden honey, there.
With wholesome cates — a farmer's fare —
She featly placed, and cheerily.

And, once upon a time, when we
Had walked a-tield, I chanced to say

How with vague bits of poesy
I whiled an idle hour away :

For love will make us rhyme, though ne'er

So sterile, and of fancy bare.

The smitten swain may chance to be.

'' Sing me a song," — my darling said ;
" One you have framed." Could I denj'?

ALICE LEE.

A simple song of waiting maid
At tryst, in bosom of greon sliade,
And lover's cold inconstancy:

•r

At twilifjlit's soft (Irciim-timc,

At fall (jf the clew,
When ineudow and woodland

Grow dim on uiy view,
1 linjjer, I listen,

Alone and apart,
For the musical footfall

That gladdens my heart.

O swittheatinjif pulses!

Your flutter and flow,
Like quiverinff leaflets

Where li^flit breezes blow,
Say, — " Now he is coming.

Across the dim dell.
The noble anil bright one

Who loves me so well !"

Alone, and so lonely! —

No voice answers mine,
Save the rush of the liver.

The sigh of the i)ine: —
Hark! come-, he, belated?

Nay, maiden, 'tis o'er;
Thy lover shall meet thee —

Shall greet thee no more.

Tlie soul of mlrtii danced in her eye,
And she exclaimed right merrily :
'' Ho ! 2/OM, too, learn to sing and sigh !
Come ! court tiie muse to strike again
Your harp, and try a cheerier strain."
'•Indeed," I said, •'! shall have skill.
If yon but speak, to work your will:"
Whereat, in tone of lighter cheer,
I breathed this ditty in her ear:

O yc gems, that lie

Gleaming in caves of light! —

Jewels of the sky.

Worn on the brow of night!

Come ye, and shine
Mid the tressy gold of this lady of mine !

O ye living stars ! —

Ye are constancy and truth !

ALICE LEE,

O pearly gem she wears

Of a sweet, unspotted youth,
Come ye, and shine
On the snowy brow of this lady of mine!

Then, ere the Imrvest season came,
Ere the reaped flelds were dry and brown,

Full many a sprightly village dame
Knew that the stranger youth from town.

After the reaping time should be

Wed to the lass of Allan Lee :

For words are wings, and fain would fly;

Love's secret cannot silent lie,

If breathed beneath the greenwood tree;

The list'ning bird, o'erhead, betrays

In warbles what each lover says ;

The evening wind, in passing, steals

More than love dreameth he reveals,

And tells the sweet heart-story when

It greets the listening ear again.

The gossips kindly dealt with us ;

And dame to dame said pleasantly

That it was just as it should be :
Thus, smiling on young lovers' joy,

They dealt in endless charity,

Forecasting man)' a peaceful prosperous year.

And the old farmer — grave — sincere,

When I had spoken, answered me

With kindly tones, and tremulous,
Yielding his child to the rash boy.
Who asked her, as she were a toy.

To bear her from his arms away-
Blessing us both, with smiles, yet tearfully.

It was his hope we would not stray —
That she might still abide with him ;

ALICE LEE.

His whitening locks, bis eye grown dim,

His Bti'cngtli, slow fiUling every day.

Told him lie had not long to stay.

80 spalce he : we would not depart ;
The new-found friend should spare a parent's heart ;
And since, tlirough all these years, he laclccd a son,
Heaven, not too late, had kindly sent him one,
Not all unworthy of his promised bride :

And slie, he knew, was good and true —

A virgin rtower of purity,

UntouchVl and unassaird by ill.

Thus, as ships ride in calms at sea.

Or move, when their wide sails mild breezes 1111,

Our bark of love did onward glide

Smootldy at the highest tide.

At last 'twas tixed. Said Alice : "• Tliough

You to your native town must go.

And greet your friends, 'tis but to loose the ties

That hold your life's chief interest there ;

Yet, sure, your longing heart must burn.

And mine, bereft, as fondly yearn

Toward promised hour of your return."

Not long, I said, the city's smoke and noise

Could please me, while my careful mind

Was still with her 1 left behind :

Soon from its walks should I repair

To sweeter scenes, and purer air.

And long ere storms of winter fell,

Return again with her to dwell.

But, as our parting hour grew near,

My Alice sad and sadder grew;
And oft I saw the rising tear

That filled her eye with tender dew :

ALICE LEE.

I heard no ringing, merry laughter

Leap on the air ; but accents strange and low-
Tones ever more subdued, and softer —
A muffled stream's melodious flow :
And faintest moan that turtle dove
Breathes in the deep of shadowy grove,
Did in her snowy bosom move ;
Or deep'ning sigh, wherewith the zephyr grieves
At evening, 'mong the pine tree's thready leaves.

How swiftly fled our latest day !
How fleet its evening rolled away !
While softly, to her harpsichord,
She sang me many a tender word ;
Charming away th' foreboding pain,
And dread of parting, with the strain.

What the star is to the sky,

And the j)earl is to the sea,
What the hght is to the eye,

And the leaf is to the tree ;
What the joy of niountinu;^ winj^js
To the bird that soars ana sinjj^s, —

Thou art to me.

Like to halcyon, heavenly calm,

After strife of stormy sea.
Like an hour of ease and balm,

After moan and agony ;
Or the summer's golden glow.
After bursts of wintry snow, —

Thou art to me.

With many a heart-ache, deeply felt,

I left the vale where Alice dwelt.
Much, secretly, she wept — her cheek grew pale

As I went forth, and longingly
She watched my form retreating down the vale :

For when I reached the opposing hill

That watches o'er her cottage still,
I for a moment paused to see

ALICE LEE.

Her standing at her father's door,
'Neath shade of elm and sycamore,

Still gazing after me ;
While in her hand a kerchief white
Flutter'd and waved before my sight :
Then on I pressed — the ridge was crossed.
And from my sight my love was lost.

The dusky-smiling eve came down
Long ere I reached my native town,
And trod the many-lighted street.
I sought the home where once had lived my sire;
And. as my travel-weary feet drew near,
I felt, within, that tremulous desire —
That mingled spiiit of eagerness and fear
Which moves us when we go to meet
Friends parted from us niatiy days ;
That mystic dread and yearning, such
As draws us from the knocker's touch —
First hastens us. and then delays.

Few were the friends I hoped to see.

That now held welcoming hand to me:

Two brothers" lives had long been told ;

My father slept beneath the sea.

My mother 'neath the chnrchy.ird mold;

Yet there were two. this side the grave,

Who greeting word of gladness gave —

A sister, gentle as a mother.

And one who was indeed a brother.

That night I rested in the home
Wh(Me 1 had lived in boyhood's day;

And, softer than the snowtlakes come,
Sweet slumber on ray senses lay ;

While Alice, and the woods and streams

ALICE LEE.

W I

If y\

That. I had left so far away,
Came gliding ever through my dreams.

Long were the hours of my abiding,

Even with friends so true and kind :

I heard my sister's mirthful chiding
Over my absent heart and wandering mind :

Yet morn brought with it occupation.

And evening cheerful conversation ;
So, days that tardy seemed, at last passed by.

And the wished-for time drew nigh.

I heard what deeds were done, what words were said.

When Alice wrote — as oft her letters came —

The friendlj^ gossip that the neighbors spread,

As linking mine with her beloved name.

" Know you." one mother to her sister spake,

'' That student-stranger is to wed

The daughter of old farmer Lee,

When he again comes back?'*

" Yea, when he comes," croaked back the dame.
In tone of evil prophesy :

'' Come he or go he — 'tis the same —
You speak of what will never be !"

Whereat my darling had a mirthful saying.

Of some better at gossiping than haying.

Dear trifles Alice wrote to me :

" I have a little vase of flowers,
Love, in your chamber ; since you went away.
These busy hands have trimmed it every day,
And steadily its flowers and leaves renewed
From wealth of garden, lield, and wood.

" Forgive," she wrote, ''your silly Alice Lee!

But, though 1 now have much to do,

The moments, sill for want of you.

ALICE LEE,

Seem to stretch themselves to hours.
To-day I gaily dressed our room
With many a flower of color and perfume,
With many a piny spray and woodland bloom."

precious scriptures of the heart !
Still do I keep your yellowing leaves ;

Ye long have of my memory formed a part —
Writ while the busy reapers bound the sheaves I
Of many things she record gave —
How she should all things ready have —
Yea. had them now^ as if to-day

1 came upon my homeward way; —
Of how her wedding dress was made,
Of how her prudent plans were laid,
But most of how she held me dear, —

With every simple thing a lover waits to hear.

III.

Oh, hame, hame, haine, to my ain countrie!

— Allan Cunningham.

I shall be there to-night :
I shall be there — no longer ive —
No more with thee.

— Mrs. Browning.

Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

— TlioMAS Campbell.

SANGUIXP] Voiith! to whose clear sight
The future lies in splendor (light.
How can we bhuue thy phantasy?

Do men at morning dread tlie night,
Cr fear tlie hour wli«*n noontide iiigii
Sliall darken from the glowing sky?
Nay! — though fair Hope hath oft betray'd
With mingled hues, of light and shade.
The heart, with every fresh delight,
Still clings to its illusion bright;
Nor deems how waking may dispel
The sweetest fancy — dream most beautiful.

So one clear morn the allotted time

Of absence quite had worn away.
And earliest bells began to chime

Just at the rising of the day :

fTT'|r^

i !

ALICE LEE.

My Dative town I left behind,
But they came pealing on the wind,
With joyous tones, while to my mind
They something mournful seemed to say.
A shade had stolen upon my heart,

Of fa • c unknown, impending ill.
Dun as ihe cloud whose stormy skirt

Trails o'er the brow of distant hill.

The latest week of absence spent,
Yet n</t tir a 'onstom'd letter sent,
Love-v, in^ '^ti f roru the farmer's home,
Through, t.h t' n; round of wear}' days:
I wander'd in a s'U^' r'd maze.
And ?vatles uitht bn >-'il visionary woe;—
Though well i i£ne;v iii; '.Tvest hands
Were reaping on her father s lands,
And that my Alice must be press'd
By duties not to be dismissed, —
For< ever since her mother died.
She used to govern and preside.
Keeping her father's house with care.

Vl' I

*' So, courage ! I shall soon be there !"
I cried, and hummed a blithesome air :
'' Fly, boding thoughts ! forever fly !
Like ghosts, when crimson morn is nigh.

In their dim sepulchre to hide :
My time of absence now is spent,
My steps are home to Alice bent.

And she shall be my happy bride."

So on I went ; and morning soon
Melted to golden afternoon —
One of September's matchless store —
When, floating o'er a wide, wild moor.

: I

ALICE LEE.

I heard a song ; and lo ! a maid
Walked with a burden on her head :
With bird-like voice, and plaintive mood,
She charmed the widening solitude.

In the time of the sun and the roses
I loved thee truly, Annie I
Ah, woe for to be awa', in the lands ayont the sea I

But when the morning's e'e all wet wi' tears uncloses
I to my weeping wake— O far awa' from thee 1

In the time when the roses wither
I mourn for thee, my Annie !
Ah, woe for to be awa', awa' so far frae thee!

Both when the evening fa's o'er thy grave in the land of heather,
And when morning rises gray out of the trembling sea.

Through wastes of country, bleak and bare,
And sheltered hamlet did I fare,

In hastening on my homeward way.
And many a hill and heath I crossed ;

Till the declining beams of day
In evening's shades were nearly lost :
The day was stealing down the west.

Leaving behind a trail of fire ;
Clouds, dipt in hues the loveliest.

Were fading out, or floating higher :
I reached the hill-top o'er the vale.
And, in the distance, glimmering pale,

Tall-rising, saw the village spire.

Away before me, o'er the vale.

The harvest fields were lying bare,
With — lonely as a single sail

On a wide sea — left, here and there,
A wheaten stook; some fields of green,
But more of russet hue were seen.
These were the scenes I held so dear,
Only a sombre atmosphere
Seemed to be brooding over all ;

Ilii!

ALICE LEE.

For when I left the spot so fair,
A rapture of young life dwelt there ;
Now, loosening leaves began to fall,
And woods bespoke the waning year,
Where late the wind's obstreperous breeze
Smote red and golden clusters from the trees.

;!iiii

The hill, upon whose wooded side

We walked in summer, I had gained;
Twilight involved the prospect wide,

And every trace of glory, grained
In streaks along the sunset sky.

Had into ashen pallor waned :
And, while the shadows deeper grew.
Dimming all things on the view.

While evening brooded o'er the vale,
The evening star unclosed its eye;
The moon arose, defeatured, pale.
And o'er her face a white cloud drew;
For, though it was the time when she
Should full, and fair, and golden be,
Siie seemed to me more deadl}^ wliite,
And filled with wan, uncertain light.
Low sang the brook, down 'neath the trees,
In undertone, its melodies,
Hollow, yet sweet; when, by the beam
Of that sick moon, some shape was seen
Of dalesman, hastening to his cot.
From farmstead near, where late he wrought;
And now, across the village green,
The twinkling lights were lit.

I thought
The farmer's home looked dead and cold :
Beneath its bower of leafy shade

ALICE LEE.

I saw the cottage — more to me
Than dome of gold and ivorj';
I saw each nnidow — saw the door
That I had left, to see no more
In sunlight warm, all open wide,
And standing there mj' plighted bride :
But now no friendly face was there.
No welcoming voice awoke the air;
Dim moonlight fell on roof and tree.

And whitened o'er the fields beneath ; —
But where — O where was Alice Lee,
Who now should be expecting me !
What made the house so dark, and still as death?

And yet, I chid my rising fear.

So vague, — and felt a certain joy
At thinking Alice was so near
That if I called her she might hear;

Then, freakish as some eager boy,
I fled along the gentle slope.
A-flutter with expectant hope.
And to the farmer home drew near.
No fire upon the hearth burned bright.

No smoke was on the still air borne ;
One dying taper's pallid light
Shone fitfully upon my sight.

And made her window look forlorn.
Right cause had I for boding fear. —
For — hark! — a bell knolled on my earl
From its dark tower it sounded forth
My darling's number'd years on earth.

What breathless haste, I knew not. bore
My footsteps onward to the door :
As one who starts, at dead of night.

ALICE LEE.

i I

With arms upcast, in dire affriglit.

From falling dream — I slirielced aloud!

I reached the gate with steps so fleet

The earth scarce felt my flying feet;

I shook it, wildly— found it fast—

And overleaped it at a bound.

'Mid which the skies seemed whirling round !

I stood in anguish, and aghast.

With listening ear a moment bowed,

As if once more the voice to hear

Should break my trance of dizzy fear !

The dark old door was just a-jar,

But on the threshold bound I stood :
A moan came trembling from afar —

A sound that froze my feverish blood ;
What was it gave that anguish birth ! —
Was that her last complaint on earth?
I stayed no longer— madly bore
Against the loudly-opening door —
Frantic I trod the echoing hall
Down which I saw the moonbeams fall,
From a small window up the stair; —
Her room ! alas ! I soon was there !
No word — no cry was uttered, when

I had a glimpse of that dear face ;
I was a frozen denizen —

Grief stricken, in a holy place :
A little way I stood apart,
For they who served now filled the space
Between me and the object of my heart.

Ah, woeful end of love's rare dreaming!
Was this a cold sepulchral seeming?
And would she on the morrow come,
The light and gladness of the home,

I' :

ALICE LEE.

Sweet mistress at the well-filled board,
With brij^ht'iiing face, and softly-spoken word?

Whs thU the prize for which I came—
The beautiful, unconscious clay
That breathless, pulseless, voiceless lay.

Bearing my darling's name?

Alas, for me ! I came too late ! —
Ijove cannot stay the hand of Fate ; —
The spoiler hastetli to destroy

What lived and blossomed yesterday;
He takes the lustre from the eye.
And from the cheeks their living dye,
Drinks from the flower its sweet perfume,
Arrests its beauty and its bloom, —
While, from his touch, the lover's joy

Flies wildly, like a frightened bird, away.

I came too late ! — a rival brave,
Whose valor cannot be defied.
Had robbed me of my peerless bride !

Dark Death had wooed her for the grave !

My star had faded, just as I
Had chosen it to be my guide,
From out the clusters of the sky.

r"^

tv..

She dwelt anioii^j: tlic untrodden ways

Ufside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hi(fden from the eye!
Fair as a star, whin (niiy one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, am' few could know

When I.,ucy ceased t( e:
But she is in her jjrave, and, oh,

The diflerencc to me !

— Wordsworth.

It is a fearful thinij
To love what Death may touch.

-Mrs. Hemans.

r^ALM river of imfailiii«? IVace!

^^ Take through luy heart thy restful way;

Bid all the pains of soirow cease —

The bitter pains of that sad daj'
When, with no streiigtli'iiing- angel nigh,
I drained the cup of agony,
Held to my ashen lips by him —
The swift of foot, the strong of limb.
Lord of the slain, whom none can slay.

No pitying, dear, Eternal Eyes,
Enriched with fond self sacrifice,

i.(prr*"

ALICE LEE.

LI ti|

Lit up the gloomy shades of woe
Through which bruised heart and faltering feet
must go ;
No mild, and gently-soothing voice,
That, ev'n in sorrow, bids rejoice.
Had spoken then the mystic cheer
Which since it has been mine to hear :
Of fairest hopes I had not one ;
In my despair I stood alone!

Nearer I drew unto her side

Who in the bloom of youth had died

To this dim-fading world of ours —

Of trembling age and failing powers.

The farmer bent with drooping head

Over the features of the dead.

And his white locks had fallen dov/n

To mingle with her ringlets brown,

Just as he chught the latest sigh

Of one too j'oung and pure to die, —

Unless that dying means to be

Alive again — eternally!

No sound of mine had m(?t his ear,

Nor did he know that I was near,

But hung above the sweetest face

That e'er wore death with heavenly grace :

He saw me not ; but I could see

Eyes looking piteouslj"^ at me

From woman-faces, clustered near,

All full of sympathy sincere ;

They marked me standing, as if grown

From throbbing flesh to pulseless stone;

And knew the wilderment and pain

That stung my heart, and dazed my brain.

The farmer rose, and turned, all slow

ALICE LEE.

And tremulous, as if to go,
But saw me standing at his side :
" Alas, my son ! alas ! " he cried ;
And streamed his eyes with tears amain, —
"• Alas for us ! — 'tis here she lies ! —
No longer ours — a daughter of the skies."

Then clearly 1 beheld that face.
On which death yet had left no trace
Save snowy slumber — such repose
As gives long truce to cankering woes :
Unmarred, unsullied, still she lay.
As she would freshly wake with day,
And come from healthy slumber, stirred
At summons of the matin bird.
Long, long I lingered, silently,
Gazing upon my blighted llower.
No more to bloom in sun or shower ; —
By me ungathered — lost, ah, lost to me !
Saintliest, when all the fields were breathing balm,
now in Heaven's eternal calm.

J-fLliJ dc^iliuAiv^i

But when the angel-souls arise

From walking with us here.
With white wings spread for native skies.

To mount and disappear.
We are as babes on foreign shore.
Who see their kindred's face no more.
And wildly beg the stranger train
To bring their mother back again.
And now this agony was mine;
And didst thou feel my woe, O Heart Divine!
Ah, had there been some friendly Power,
With Christ-like, deep, compassionate eyes.
To bring from yonder Paradise

prW

\<vi

:iiii

IP!

ALICE LEE.

My beauteous truant, I had ^iven
A heart's harmonious sacrifice —
The richest worsliip known in Fleaven !
And had those ej'es, so fondlj' bright
When last they met ray yearning sight,
Unclosed their pearly lids for me,
No heart, or human or divine.
Had known a rapture more than mine.

Alas ! Alas ! it might not be !
Hushed was that voice of former glee :
O eyes ! sweet eyes, that might not open more !

ear ! now dull, that once so quickly heard —
Thirsting to hear — love's most endearing word !

O Alice ! lovely form ! —

No longer breathing, warm,
As thus in calm repose j'ou lay,
As your sweet spirit passed away,
You never seemed so beautiful before!

A gauzy robe — her bridal dress —

The only shroud she wished to wear —
As if to mock at my distress.

Was lying idly there.
There violet veins tliat tracked the snow

Of her pure brow grew colorless ;
Yet a pale tint her lips did show.
As death had stol'n her spirit with a kiss.
Still, as I gazed, she ever fairer grew.

As if she shone upon my sight;
And her wavy hair l»ad darker hue,

Upon her brow so wiiite.
And, as I watched her still, transfigured mien,
Yet knew how coldly she was lying there,

1 thought of all that she to me had been.

ALICE LEE.

And all she might have been, did she not wear
Heaven's guise, so seraph-like, and so serene :
As a bird, o'er its rifled nest, ,
With thorny sorrow in its breast,
I, with unutterable pain.

Hovered o'er her pale face again, —

As if I sought for smile or tear.

To tell of love and life still near.

While all my seeking was in vain.

Benumbed, at first, I had not felt
The sudden blow upon me dealt;
But with the dawning's clouded gray.
And the first peeping light of day,
Mj'^ sense with quick acuteness came ;

Mv heart was toiling in a sea

Of most tempestuous agony.
My brain was hot with fever flame.
I know not what I did ; but they
Who watched the silent chamber, say
I stroked her brow — toyed with each tress.
And fell, with many a wild caress.
Calling, in piteous words and burning,
On her, so far removed from tears and mourning.

By day, b}' night, I never slept.
My long and lonely watch I kept;
Jealous of death and of decay,
I sought to ward their power away;
Of her sweet singing soul bereft,
I madly clung to what was left.
As dreading the approaching day
When it must sleep in couch of clay.
Oft, pitying the lonely grief
That asked not comfort nor relief,
They came to me with the request

ALICE LEE,

;i!

That they might watch, and bid me rest;

While the old farmer wept and smiled

To see me linger o'er his child.

And pressed my brow with the brown hand

Roughened by toil, by sunshine tanned : —

And well he might, to sec me kiss

The lips so mute and motionless.

And lavish fondness on the form

The soul had lelt to dust and worm !

I could not speak, but shook my head ;

They passed away with noisless tread.

And left me lonely with my dead :

I heard their footsteps on the stair,

Their murmur'd words rose on the air;

Soon came the closing of the doors ;

Then upward stole the tones of prayer.

From one who wresthss and implores,

And plucks a hope from his despair;

It faltered — ceased — and night again

Resumed the silence of its reign ;

The clock, whose pendulum's measured swing

Seemed movement of a living thing,

Ticked slowly, while I watched the dead

Dear face of love ; — while, near at hand,

The taper burning on the stand.
Waned, and again flared momently anew,
And on the wall my wavering shadow threw.

A stupor crept upon my brain : —

The soft enchanted hand of Sleep
Picked out the pointed barbs of pain,
And dropt in balm ; while, deft as snowflakes creep
Down some wild waste of sky, lo ! vision'd forms
descended ! —
It was my darling, by a train attended,

ALICE LEE.

Coming, irradiate, back to me again !
Ah ! could we, lost in woeful worlds, but keep

Such fond conceits and visions rare —
Would they but cling to us. as grief and care.

We should not wake so wearily to weep !

I dreamed — illusion false and vain !
I saw her living face again.

And the love-sparkle in her eyes ;
Her lips, with mirthful music running o'er.

As light o'erflows the morning skies ;
Again 1 held her hand, and heard once more

That welcome accent, which to me
Was sweeter than angelic harmony;

Again I stood on the hillside

With her, and saw the crimson pride

Of sunset, while its mingled gold
And crimson all the west intlamed and dyed ;

Again my love I warmly told.
And plead anew the lover's plea :
Then, as she made her low reply
To welcome importunity —
Easing her heart with her sweet sigh —

wild dismay! — O misery! —

1 woke her pallid face to see !

Among the rustling elms outside

The night-winds came, and moaning, died :

Some svvaying twigs, once and again.

Switched against the window pane.

I was alone beside mj' dead :

How close to her's I leaned my head !

But when the morrow's sun should shine,

Low in the grave's deserted shrine

She must be hidden from mine eye.

ALICE LEE.

Dismaying? truth ! as witlierins; flame

Scorchliijif my licarr. that UK'inory came !

Why was 1 thus alone— IxTcft,

Without a hope or sohict; left?

I searched for no divine intent.

Saw notliin^ wise and i)rovident

On which iny spirit couhl rely;

But throned in universiil state.

A blind, resistless, crushin<; Fate —

A cold, impassive Deity,

My clouded eyes alone could see.

Torn with my an(]juish, ton<;ue made free

Its wailing cry of agony —

•'O Alice I" — Silence answered me.
Save that, wild wrestling with tlie great elm tree,
'i'he moaning hlast swept by;

But louder rang the cry of woe,

That gave my sorrow overllow.

Wild words I spoke, and grief is wild

In hearts that mourn unreconciled;
I only asked to die —

X cared no more for death or doom.

The world was but a living tomb.

And life, one endless sigh !

But sorrow's tide had ris'n too high.

And my o'ertasked and tortured brain

Sank all unconscious of its pain:

He found me lying on the floor.

Who came the earliest to the door.

Jjong time, deliriously [ lay,

Harrow'd by dreams of shapes of fear, —
Until one morn. wIkui. warl)ling clear,
A bird, lodged in the elm tree near

My window, woke me with the day.

ALICE LEE.

And drove tlie phantom forms away.
Till then no soft'ning Impulse came.
My heart had been as mingled dust and flame;
But I could weep — swift tears arose,
And heavenly healing for my woes;
For something from that wrestling prayer,
Like angel whispers in the air.
Had stirred the calm of my despair;
And something of seraphic gh^am
Was lingering round me from my dream;
I felt that, from her place on high.
Her gentle spirit had been nigh.
To soothe my heart's great agony.
The bed whereon I oft had lain
Now held my wasted limbs again :
I strove my clustering thoughts to speak,
But failed — an infant not so weak ;
When, gentle chiding and command
Came whispered— and I saw a hand
Upraised — my sister's ! Swift she came
To watch me through the fever flame,
And with pain'd heart, and bated breath.
To mn-se me at the gates of death.

And woo me back to life

agiun.

Little untold doth yet remain :

My kinsfolk would have led me to

The place my earliest childhood knew —

Said, •' Dwell with us." 1 answered, '' Nay :"-

My settled choice it was to stay.

And here my life was worn away.

But he was gone — I did not see

The well-worn form of farmer Lee,

But found, when 1 had strength to stray

Along the grassy churchyard way,

I tl

ALICE LEE.

Two recent graves beneath the shade,
The sexton side by side had made.

Stranger I the frosts of many a year

Have f all'n on tne — these loclcs are gray ;
The leafage of my life is sere,

And soon must fall away ;
But to mj'^ storm-tried soul are given
The consolations born of Heaven ;
I wait the bride who, still, in death
Commands ray love, and wins my faith ;
The hope I cherish is my better part,
With saintly Sorrow, precious to my heart.

AT THK QRAVE OK A POKT.

"The humblest of all sepulchres." — Byron. "Churchill's Graved

" Yet after he was dead and gone,

And e'en his memory dim,
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love because of him.''

—James Russell Lowell.

RO stone was there to mark his tomb,
For none were left to place it;
A damp wind wail'd his dirge of doom.

And sighed a lorn hie jacet ;*
A leafless tree stretch'd, pitiful,
• Its gaunt arras, scar'd and smitten ;
Sure, in this withering sentinel
The Poet's doom was written !

No foot, save hers he lov'd to hear.

Came near to break his slumber ;
Her weeping voice might reach his ear,

Low in his hollow chamber :
But even she should come no more —

Her mournful days are over ;
On Beauty's amaranthine shore

She clasps her minstrel lover.

I. Here lies.

AT THE GBAVE OF A POET.

So well he lov'tl the flowery race,

So clear he saii^ their praises.
Violets should throng his resting place,

And nodding, white-faced daisies:
But few and simple blooms 1 brought.

From fleld and garden talien ;—
1 could not bear to see the spot

So utterly forsalcen.

And, standing by the nameless mound,

Witli moss and weed grown rankly,
VVhere all tlie darlv, surrounding ground

Tlie mullen shaded danlvly, —
With pensive tear I moiirn'd the dead,

And lonelier felt without liim.
Musing o'er words the world had said,

Too carelessly, about him.

'' Here lies a hapless child of rhyme —

A life decay'd and wasted ;
He knew the pleasures of his time,

Though few of them he tasted :
Much did he know, who sleeps below.

Of human care and sorrow : —
Peace comes to-day ; nor want nor woe

Shall mar his rest to-morrow."

So kindlj'^ souls may speak, who know

Not cause for song, but sighing;
Whose eyes look not to deeps below,

Where spirit-gems are lying; —
The caieful ones, in prudence great,

Who ever fear the losing;
Nor sit at heavenly Beauty's feet,

Their better portion choosing.

AT THE GRAVE OF A POET.

Apart from niou tlio Poet dwcUa;

\Vh(M'f» minstrel-spirits lead Iiim
Ho walks, 'mid unvoicM oraoles.

With tlioujfhts that tire and fecMl liini, —
Away! Awaj'! the llvelonfj daj'.

Thro' haunted wood and meadow.
'Mid dews of dawn, and sunset's ray.

And this world's starry shadow.

But wan and faint the Poet grows.

From his own elassie dreannng;
While o'er the nijj^htingale's repose

Is heard the jay's harsli screaming; —
But wan and pale the l*oet grows.

And mourns when lie remembers
That now the the no longer glows

Amid his ashy (unbers.

But there are colder hearts than move

To rapture and to pity ;
And Dullness doth his songs reprove,

And Wisdom's stern committee :
*' Avaunt! these sons of useless rhyme.

All idle follies tinding;
TJttle they do to serve their time.

Or keep the world-stones grinding.

'•Few be these children overgrown,

In manly pith so wanting.
Who sidk in corners — rave alone —

Their sicklj' folly vaunting !
What are their silly songs, to win

Such praise as comes to merit? —
Vain dreamers, they! in thought as thin.

As they are poor in spirit!'"

1 . " The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once
With iiidij^nation turned himself away.
And with tlie food of pride sustiiined liis soul
In solitude." —Wordsworth.

AT THE OSAVE OF A POET.

Curl, ye cool lip, with frosty aoorn,

Ye no'er were toucli'd with llro! —
And ye, to no wild niptures born,

May spurn the lute and lyre:
Your dull realities belong

To you — your tame derision ;
Not saintly Milton's hallowed song,

Not Dante's wondrous vision !

The lips now silent 'neath this clay.

Spake words of noblest beauty —
Spake words that cheer life's lowliest way,

And light the tasks of duty;
His tongue had golden speech, beyond

Our uiarring or our mending. —
Words, that a glittering pathway found,

Like forms of light ascending.

And said I, that he dwelt alone.

For fellowship repining?
Na}'^ ! nay ! the best the world has known—

A singing group, and shining —
Were his ; the bright companionship

Of bards : — no thought was vapid.
Flowing from each most honied lip.

With music, wild and rapid.

Ilis were such pure and high delights

As charm a soul untainted;
With him, upon the Muses' heights.

Walked holy ones and sainted ;
The phantom. Beauty, at his side,

Transform'd the frail and human,

AT THE OliAVE OF A POET.

Till, by tho Poet gloilHeil,
Was nothing niejiii or common.'

O, do not lightly Marae the Bard,

Who shigs and suffers for thee;'
For thou must give liiin thy regard,

Ere he to thee seem worthy :
Yield him no careless, fSghtlng thought,

Rut reverently prove him :
They love him not who know him not,—

To know him Is to love him.

Ah! who would scorn the Poet's lot,

Tho' painful, and tho' lonely?—
Or think to feel ennobled thought,

And high-born rapture only?
They mingling come — the smile, the tear,

The How of pain and pleasure, —
Upsweeping wafts of music clear,

And many a low-breathed measure.

But Beauty with the Poet lives

Forever and forever;
And Music, sweet as memory gives,

Dies from his dreaming never;
Not all the din of street or mart.

Can dull the spirit's rhyming,
Nor banish from his haunted heart

That song's eternal chiming.

Ills lark is ever in the cloud.
To fill his heaven with singing;

1 . "Daily life and duty seemed

No longer poor and common."

— Wkittier on Burns.

2. "Cradled into poetry by wrong,

L,earning in suflering what they teach in song."

— Shell.'v.
8

AT THE GRAVE OF A POET.

Fresli leaves are ever where aloud
ITis thrushes glad are ringing;

Morn lives ev'n in his sunset glow,
His east and west illuming;

And, over all his fields of snow.
He sees the daisies blooinlng.

O, cold in hearr. and dull in ear!

What j'e have counted folly
Makes earth appear less tame and drear.

And life less melancholy :
The Bard and Hero crown their race ; —

While ev'n the godlike Hector
Shines in the light of Homer's face.

And owns his benefa(;tor.

The Poet lifts the hearts of men

To true ai)i)reciation ;
Outsoars the critic's blasting pen —

His fulsome adulation :
Soon, soon the wronged and buried Past

Triumi>hs o'er long rejection !
Genius and worth obtain at last,

In nohle resurrection.

Must Genius want, and Goodness groan,

A joyless path pursuing':*
Aud must posteiity alone

Commend a worthy doing?
Must hapless poets sing and sigh.

Where but the Muse repaj^s them ;
And when their wretched bodies die,

The world begin to praise them?

Grim Want came to the Poet's door.
And cheerful Health departed;

AT THE GBAVE OF A POET.

Prostrate lie lay, alone and poor.

And almost broken-hearted :
Few friends, but \vortli}% came — their free

And generous friendship proving;
They calmed to sweet serenity

His tender heart and loving.

But they are gone I he slumbers here,

Apart from every other I —
The child of song, ine heart sincere.

The kindly friend — the brotluirl
But conscious Nature mourn'd I — the brook

Murmur'd of the (h^parted ;
The hillj put on a mournful look;

The trees seem'd broken-hearted.

And does lie know when Spring returns.

Who sang her joys so sweetly V —
When violets spring by meadow burns,'

Whose crystal llow(*tli lleetlyV
Ah I ill this dreary, desert place.

Where long ago they laid him,
Comes she, with l)eauty and with grace,

Such as she once convey 'd him?

Rest, child of song I whose eyes are dim,

That thought would once illumine;
No more tiieir ample orbs shall swim

With tears so sweetly human :
This mossy mound alone may show

Where unite and chill is lying
The heart that bl«;d for every woe.

While yot itself was dying I

Rest thee, lov'd Bard I for this, alone —
This ground may no man grudge thee I

I. Brooks.

AT THE GBAVE OF A POET.

The world, that gave not ev'n a stone^
Perchance, forgets to judge thee :

My simple wreath I here bestow —
With tears I here bestow it !

For in my heart enshrined, I know.
Thou art forever — Poet !

l'envoy.
A stone I brought to mark his tomb,

With sculptured scroll to grace it ;
The wild-rose lent its simple bloom,

The wild-vine crept t' embrace it ;
I hedged about the vacant lot

With thorns, whence flowers might waken,
That those who came should see the spot

Not utterly forsaken.

■\

THE KNTHUSIASX.

'• Now to determine the day and the year of this inevitable time is not only
convincible and statute madness, but also manifest impiety."

— Sir Thomas Browne. Religio Medici.

|WAS on an April eve,

When earth and air were still:
No breathing wind with me had leave

To wander o'er the hill,
That, hare and dusk, 'gainst sunset's glow,
Had yet its ghostly spots of snow.

Soon as eve's loveliest star

Looked forth with lucent ray,
I paced the russet fields afar,

A wide and aimless way :
And, as I went, I felt depart
The fret and fever from my heart.

Welcome ! thou silent hour ! —

The horn- belov'd by all,
When o'er the heart, with soothing power,

Soft balms and shadows fall, —
Low let thy snnset glories burn,
For I am glad of thy return.

Then mildly, hung on high.
Shone Dian's golden ring ;

THE ENTHUSIAST.

And, in the cedar-thicket nigh,

1 heard a robin sing :
From flowing rill, and sighing pine,
A feeling of the Spring was mine.

My winter-wearied eye

Deemed flowerless fields were fair ;
And, as I drew exu'.tingly

The freshness of the air,
I scarce could win a glow more tine
From beakers of elysian wine.

Ah, how harmonions-fair

Is Nature's equal frame!
How doth she constant witness bear

Of Him from whom she came !
How doth she, from her Author true.
Her youth perpetually renew!

But as the shades came on.

And many a star outshone.
Bright as the beacon of the dawn,

One blazed aloft alone, —
And trailed behind along the night
A paly train of glimmering light.

While from the hill-top high,'
I watched the river's flow,

A reverend man of eld drew nigh,
With faltering steps, and slow :

His wrinkled face, his win ned hair.

And tottering gait, engaged my care.

I. Deane Hill, Orrington, overlooking the Penobscot. These verses are
an outgrowth of my Second Advent impressions, obtained in that town dur-
ing a uirec years' pastorate.

THE ENTHUSIAST.

And oft he pausod, aiul turned.

With luiiny an upward ghmce.
As thouofh, whore calmly gloomed and burned

The sky's serene expanse,
'Mid chambers of inrniity.
He sought what most he loved to see.

" Tell me. O reverend sire !"

I said, as near he came ;
'• Is it the opening Spring's desire

That thrills thy trembling frame.
And draws thee forth at this sweet hour,
To test boon Nature's healing power?

'' No breathing of soft airs,

Nor fancies of the Spring.
Can from his deeds of alms and prayers

The hoary i)ilgrim i)ring :
/come to watch Heaven's latest sign,
And see God's fiery signet shine.

Oitrs is the latest day

This unpurged earth shall see;
Yon crescent fire is set to say

That Time no more shall be."
I then replied : " That hour of woes
Nor man, nor angel, surely knows.

•• This knowledge God has given :

There is a time when fire
Up to the battlements of heaven

Shall kindle and aspire.
And earth a blazing cinder glow, —
But who the fateful hour may knoio ?"

*' Yea. by the wise in heart
May all the signs be read

THE ENTHUSIAST.

That teacli wlien heaven and earth depart,"

The aged pilgrim said ;
" He comes! to whom the worlds belong;
And they who wait, shall not wait long."

I nightly watch to see

The angel-pinion spread.
And hear that vocal mystery

Which mnst aronse the dead.
Louder than seas' and thunders' roar.
Proclaiming, — Time shall be no more !"

*' Ah, reverend sire!" I said,

'^ The eyes that now grow dim,
In noon's bright tent, or midnight shade,

Must vainly searcli for Him :
The vigil profitless resign.
Nor make the Almighty's secret — thine!

" And if to-night there shined

His presence in the void.
What better than that He should find

His servant well emploj-ed?
What matters whether faithful eyes
Be turned upon the earth, or skies?'

I. " Occupy till I come," is the Master's injunction; and this Abraham
Davenport obeyed to the letter, when, as related in Whittier's verse, the
startled lawgivers rxclaiined :

" It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn."
* * ♦ And then, as if with one accord.
All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.
He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice
The intolerable hush. "This well may be
The Dav of Judgment which the world awaits ;
But be it so or not, I only know
My present duty, and my Lord's command
To occupy till he come. So at the post
Where he hath set me in his proviuence,
I choose, for one, to meet him face to face, —
No faithless servant frightened from my task,
But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls."

THE ENTHUSIAST.

"Oil. o'er thy niiiul distraiii^ht

Let this cahn evening steal!
These airs, o'er thy distempered tliought,

Shall moderate its zeal,
And to its fuM'y fervor join
A reason, temperate, yet divine."

Then, prophet-like, he seemed

To lose the sense of age ;
Ilis eyes with piercing lustre gleamed,

And liigh seraphic rage ;
Sublimely stern, his lips employ
The accents of a mighty joy I

Like prince's jewelled tire

His tattered vest he wore;
And with a high enthusiast ire

Ilis loftj' front he bore; —
A grandeur, as of star and sea,
Had his impassioned augiuy !

" Rewaie! O faithless man I

The archangelic train
Cometh with rolling clouds! — His van

Shall pierce you jcrial main ! —
Death shall not close these eyes so dim !'-
These eyes that fondly look for Him !

Vain youth I uplift thine eye
Where, 'mid the starry quire.

I. There have been nicnlcrn expectant Elijahs, averrinuf that they shouUl
never die, liut would he clianjj'ed, and ascend witli Christ, and so esc;i|ie tlie
ck)ds of the valley ; but they come to the confession : " I have been mistaken.
I shall die, and g'o down to the ^fi'ive, as my fathers have done before me."

THE ENTHUSIAST.

.11

IJroad-tlaslics, in our noi-tlieni skj-,

Von scimitar of tiro I'
Head what porlciids that Jlamhi/j brand, —
The end of (til tliimja is at hand I

" liohold thy Lord appear!

See Ids resplciidoiit cai"! —
Ev'ii now. irradiate, (h"a\vs it near —

I hail its sound, afar!
Prostrate tlijscdf, youn^? man ! — prepare
To meet tliy Master in the air!"

And then Ins voice took on

A i)Ieadin<^. monrnfid tone;
And tliat niajesti(; look was <^one.

Which nn<iiit befit a throne :
With hands upraised, as if for aid.
For his descending Lord he prayed :

" Come, to this house of moan —

The home of woe and grief —
Dear sufferer! from Thy snowy throne

Descend to our relief!
We weary 'mid this ni*^ht of tears,
Till Thy celestial dawn ai)pears !

"• Come ! we Thy Name revere ! —

Thou didst our burdens bear,
Didst shed on earth a human tear,

And breathe a human i)ra)'er :
Now let us see tiiee ! Come Thou nigh,
And raise Thy children to the sky !

*• Thy people are accursed —
By men reviled and scorned;

I. A comet was predicted about this time, but, if it became visible, I
could never see it.

i'i

THE ENTHUSIAST.

Spurned by the hjisost aiid tlio worst.
Long have their children niourned!
Avenge their wrongs I Dciscend ! descend !
And let tlieir sorrows Inive an end I

*' Thon eoniestl" wild lie cried;

'•' Thou didst not long delay!
I liear, ev'n tunr)^ Thy chariot ride

Adown the starry way ! —
Down — down Thy hai'ness'd angels sweep! —
Thy jndgnieiit tires arc on the de«'p I

** I see — I see Iliin come

Down yon dissolving skies!
Behold! the nations of the tomb —

The shnnbering nations — risii!"
I looked: and frenzy bla/(!d and shone
Wild in a madman's e3'es. alone !

He vanished. Came, with morn.

The snn "mid splendors red.
Cahnly, and as in ro3al scorn —

But the old man was dead !
Fanatic lire burned reason l)lind.
And withering ashes left behind.

God's promises are true.

Nor shall His threat'nings Tail ;
Though heaven and earth depai't from view.

His counsel nuist prevail :
But who may be the seer, whose eyes
Can read this secret of the skies?

BURNS KKMEJn/IBEKKO.

JANUARY 25y 1SS5.

Ah ! yc've been wi' the imh'Ls, siiy yc? Truth, an'they's rtnc fellows, inaist
o' them; thouijh the cliiels h;ie afti'ii heeii ^i'eii over to want and sorra. Hut
a memher o' the ehaiitiiiif ^viihl there is tliat will lie clieiry ami hlithesonie,
and will K'''" ■'"' ''•"■' '•'•'^ san^ an' joke, i' the vcrra teeth o" niisfortune. The
poets are a tine family, indeed ; tlum^li winsome Uobin's the best av a'.

EMOKV, (lau^^hinjrly.)

Yes, we expect you to say so. It is very natural for a Scotchman out of
Scotland to think poetry means Burns. Thi're wiTe poct> hefori' the IJaril;
Uiere have been since. Have you no car for the songs of to-<lay?

MACl AUI.IN.

Ay, ayl tuneful birds sin;^: now, I make no question; but uaething,
pared wi' Robin. What's the name of tlie chanter, asks,

com-

"What bird in beauty, lli^rht or sony.
Can with the bard compare?"

Well may he question'. Wlia is like Scotland's Hums, wi' a' his fau'ts an'
frenzies? Whalsanji's ha'c a lilt sae fresii and free, sae heartsome an' nature-
like; imtil we can hear the lin'-'-' ' ■ ' '" ■ ' *'■ ■ *' - '

Doon, an' blossomy j^^owans, in
lucky-luckless niountaui daisy?

,es : >y iiai .-^aii^s 11 a v a iiiL >iie 11 l ^ji aiui net, .>,ie iieai LMime an 1 lai 11 re-
like ; until we can hear the lintwhite and mavis, an' feel the thorny rose o'
Doon, an' blossomy j^^owans, in his lic|uiil music — saving luiething about that

EMORY.

Yes; and saying^ nothinjr about Uie Jolly Beggars.

MACIAKI.IN, (exciteiUy.)

I ken ua whot ye may think, Meenister — I ken ua how ye may feel; !)ut I
maun speak kindly o' my puir, pnir Robbie I I si e his tace in some divine
rapture — the tlasli o' his woiulerful eye — his memorable form ; and I cannot
slight or scorn him. Inileeil he was nae saunt — the mair's the ])itvl — though
he could pray, an' do so awfully, Maister Saunders Proudtil tells us, when
ither drunken louts thocht only o' snoring. But he was verra honest, and
his heart was aye tender, and he was the chiel o' dool an' misfortune, even
fram his cradle. I feel toward him as a duel o' my ain — ma ain wee, bonnie
buirnie — bless his cherub ficel — I have not seen these vears !

I! I;

BURNS REMEMBERED.

EMORY, (iisidc.)

Listen to that soliloquy 1— thosu guntle, brooding tones ! Whurc can tlie
child be?

out
ane

MACKAKLIN.

He came before nie this c't'iiinir as I sat laiiely, jjlowcriii' a' the ciieer
o' tile injfle; and a' was hriclit, tnouy^li I driaiiud 'till tin Icine was jj:
out. 1 thocht o' my wit'c an weans far over ayoiit tliu wcltcriii' blue, in
bonny Scotlaiul. Sicins I could fold tin m in my arms, wi' a' tlie distance;
an' tears misted my ten, as tiie towers o' (ilnsi^ii' rose liefore me, with the
high Caledonian lulls; fur in my ima^^ine 1 trnd the iiromnielaw, felt the
rush o' the sea-breeze, an' swept wi' lovin' ^rlances "the sweet curve o'
Rothesay Uay." liut the dearest bairn ava is not there amang them; he is
in Heaven, — and sae, 1 liopi, is Robbie!

EMOKv, (aside.)

See ! he has forgotten us ! He rises from his chair — his eves are turned
upward— his rijifht hand out-readies, and moves with the clianjjes of his
emotion. Me is tearful — his voice trembles — his roug'h features refine and
ennoble in tlie j^low of lofty IVcliiin! What bleiuled admiration, love, pity,
in Ills toiK's, as he apostrophizes his favorite bard! — what pathos — what
tenderness !

MALI' AKLIN.

Anil thou, too, iirt near me, a blessed presence, even as in Anld Lang
Sync', 'fliou art to me as my verra ain, anil thine imaye is dear to me! lien-
tie Robin Hums! sweetest o' singers I — iiae speckled breast ever started frae
heather with iiiair o' music! I^onlliest o' iialure's iiobleiinjii — followiir thy
team alaiiy the moiiiilain-side — dallviiiK with the faerie Music'. Wha would
iia s|)eak a fond word for ye, Robin! tlioiiLfh ye are where foul nor fair
speech can reach ye now! Thou iliilst put more beaiitv in all things of
beauty; didst add a soul to soii<;-, and point with light llie beamy lances of
morning. 'I'here is not a stream but riiis whimperin' or babblin' o' you.
Ah, thy little share-torn daisy! 'twill livi', in its meek, pathetic beauty,
when many o' the ])r()uikr llowers o' fame liae faded! We're aye wi' thee
through the encliaiiteil woodlands; and the dales aiul dingles echo to thy
call, while we 'gae fauliling Cluileii's woods amang, wi" tlie liiitvv-hite-locked
lassie; or stray where hoar Moiitgomi'rie spre.iils its siiatle, hopeful amang
the birks and hawtiiorns to meet wi' llighlaiul Marv. There's not a tender,
true, poetic soul but loves you, Robin! and yet — and yet! * * * * Alas,
Robbie! that ye ever knew priik', praise, or wluiskey! Ma piiir, puir boy !
what ane did tiiey slay, when ye sank doon untimely i' the dust, adding ane
more name to the mourntu' record o' misliirtune ! What heavenly plumage
was plucked into tin- mire, when the demon o' sinfu' passion had his sport
wi'thee! What wreaths it turned to niglit-shaile ! — what laurels it burned
to ashes on thy low-laitl brow, O my suft'eriiig son of song!

— From the Minister'' s Fireside.

" He'll liae misfortunes great and sma,"
But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit 'till u"* a',
We'll a' be proud o' Robin."

— BuKNS. '' There Was a Lad."

BURNS BEMEMBEHED.

•Jnv

i'()Ii\'FiI) in cloudy vapors ^r.'iy,
I'lic n-appciirlnj;' kliij;' of diiy.
Now strii<^^liii^ inakos liis wintry way.

To wake tin* morn.
When — blithest bird (»f (dearest lay! —

Onr Hums was l)orn.

With snowy winds al)ro:id to rav«\
Wild natnre piped a froli(? stave,
And ronyh and hearty welconi(> ;;ave

Her favorite l»oy.
Who shonld misfortune's storms outbrave.

Its bolts defy.

The babe she elasped in her rude arms,

And nursed him, with hei* smiles and storms,

Moved to wild raptures and alarms

His minstrel soul.
And held him, by her frowns and charms.

Jn her control.

His was her treasur)'. — her time
Of fallino^ leaves, and frosty rime ;
The budding season's singing i)rime.

With sunshine rife;
And that •• true pathos and sublime

Of human life.'"

But liim she did not shield from woe;
Teaching his tiery heart to know

I. See the Epistle to Dr. Blacklock :

" To make a liappy (ircsidc cliino
For weans and witc,

That's the true jjathos anil sublime
Of Human life."

BUBKS BEMEMBERED.

Of tears the Ntterest overflow:—

Yet hence tliere came

The keener sense, tli(^ ••friendly j^low.

And softer flame.""'

Hail to thee! chief of Scottish bards!
And flrst amon<? a world's reo^ards!
Th}'^ music wed to noble words.

Goes the world o'er;
'V\\y pastoral notes, thj' deep he.".rt-chords,

Sweeten each shore.

We love each song to nature true,
Like d;'wn and sunset to the view
Fa!;."'';ir, olden— ever new.

And ever sweet
As the dear daisy in the dew,

Meek at th,y feet.

From '"burn" and '•'brae*' thy coining brings
Thoughts of all bright and joyous things ; —
The hawthorn blooms, the merle sings

Aloud, and — hark!
Singing, to his blue heaven upsprings
The morning lark !

Alas ! that o'er a harp so flne.
That, swept with ardor so divine,
Could make the lowly virtues shine

Like stars on high.
Should sound at Passion's soiled shrine

So witchinglv !

"The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to k';.rn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly j;'low
And softer lliinie."

— Thk Baku's liriTAPH.

■h!

n URNS REMEMBERED.

But let us not. in rantinj:^ strain,
Of man or poet liore conji)l!iin ;
Ours in his nobler son^c: the gain,

We gladly share :
If his the error, his the pain, —

T^et ns beware !

Alas for ill I — yet ean we soon
Forget the charPi of "Bonnh' Boon?-''
Nay! and while Afton winds in noon-
Tide solitude.
'I'he soul must bless thy eheorful boon —
Thy melting mood I —

Thy poet-scorn of mean and low.
Of titled fo<d. and glitrcriiig show,
'I'jjy power to feel "'the friendly glow.

And softer tlame t" —
Uriknown are tliey who do not know

Tfnj magic nam(» !

O mus!c-:spirit I "•child of air!""

What generous heart but tiiou art thei'c !

What chord, from rapture to despair.

Hut thou didst move!
Yet on thy front dost chietly wear —

Fheedom. AM) Love!

AN AKTKKTH(3UaMT.

I ^ IJECOKD crude of adnnration due;

Not such as I had writ in later days.

For sorrow. de<>per than sincerest praise.
Stirs at his name. ^'cs. tbcr*- vven> virtues, true
10

AN AFTERTHOUGHT.

And nohlo in liis ii;itiiiv — not u fo^'.

With <;('niiis. fcivid as a torrid noon.
Lucid, as arc tlic bvool<s tlic forest tln()M<^li.

And luniinon.s, as wlicn tlic globed lull moon
O'er the dark hill-top rises into view.
Yet hud the wise in word, in heart been wise,

No wonderinji; world had wept his fall so soon :
The soul that raiscnl the cotta<^e to the skies.

And breathed the fi-a<:;rant si<;^hs of '' Thnniie Dooii^"'
SVionld in its way liavc met a kinder fate.
And swept with spotless wing the shining gate.

A DREAIVI OK HKAVEN.

©TJEAMIXG, I i)asis(>(l the »;lltt('riiig doino. whose blue
Melted bcliiiid. Jiiid silent tliroiio-h the gate
("ailed Everlastin»»"; when ii|m>ii my view
The splendors broke of an Inunortal State:
Miiie ey<'s took blindness from th' nnwontcd f^low
That fell iijton them snddeidy; till, slow,
And by (le<;r<'es, 1 bore the pomp of light — •
Tlie iieavenl}- wonder of retiu'ning sight I

H«>antiful. as the bowers of tii.it green <'arth

^^ her«> ,11 an to his existeiK-e lirst awoke.

Was fh«' unfolding scene — this maivelouH birth

Of loveliness I As at a magic stroke

Of some enchanter, did the landscape dawjj

To vision; witli familiar siiapes. npdrawn —

The origlit'ning phantom- of earth's blooming things,

'I'hat live anew by (dear ethcical springs.

Swept round by deep transparency of wall,
Itadiaiit as many-colored evening sk}%
Ko^e Light's sii|)reme, nnijestic capitol.
And Love's resplendent prinei|>ality :

.1
"i

! I

ill

1 1
'•I

A DUE AM OF HEAVEN.

Their fields dispreml, illimitable, free,

As siin-illiimiiied plains ot Italy.

Where youthful Sprin*^ dwelt in unwaning prime,

And airs- mellilhioiis breathed a softer clime.

Beyond the wall stretch'd this divine champaign,
Fading purpurea 1 from the gazer's eye.
As he some station eminent might gain,
The many-featured landsca])e to descry;
And o'er it hung a cope of amj)k'St mould.
With mingled blue, and trembling haze of gold,
Through which a swe<'t]y-t('mi)ered light did fall,
Suflusing and illuminating all.

The river's fullness from its still retreats
Sent down its crystal, wheri; the asphodel
Steals secret glances, and (exhales its sweets;
And came, till sparkling wall and turret fell
In splendid shadow; onward, then, to stray.
Upon its musical, life-giving way.
Wooing the fadeless amaranth to spring,
And swept by many a bird's resplendent wing.

'Mid-view arose the City's silvery spires,

And the white Temi)le, tiery-pinnacled :

The high Jnettable Light theie veiled His lires.

Obscuring glories rapturously beheld.

Dazzling the gold-wing'd ones who ''Holy!'' crj'.

Whose mitigated splendors till the eye

With radiant excess : — there was no need

Of the sun's chariot, and his golden steed.

O awful mount! magnilic, dread abode!
O'erlooking. universal sentinel!
Thy pure brow luminous with th' outshining God,
Who oute in awful solitude did dwell!

A DREAM OF HEAVEN.

I saw thy steeps eiiswathed with sheeny cloud,
Through which anon clear points of ruby showed;
While, far below, thou uiight'st discerned be
In bright reflection on the glassy sea.

Then, trembling from its base, uprose a sound —
A deep melodious thunder — like the swell
Of some cathedral organ, which hath drowned
Soft voices antheming, — that rose and fell;
Tempestuous rapture mounting like the sea.
Flooding all shores of sense with harmony;
Then, dying in sweet wavelets on the ear,
With many a minor cadence, silver clear.

Then woke the central host in praiseful choir.
Who came by death's black valley — up, and out
From troublous deeps below; and mounted higher
Than sliines the morning star. There never doubt,
And never fear can reach tliem : priests to (Jod,
They bear the hallowed seal of martyr-blood;
And robed in snowy dress, with faces bright,
They praise Ilim in His temple, day and night.

All things 1 saw in happiest concord move.
And Duty wove a tlowery band of Law;
" Familiar acts gr(;w beautifnl through Love,"'
As from the sun do shards a lustre draw :
There linest feeling, and divinest thought.
From fnll harmonious speech are hindered not;
And god-like speech hath god-like action, too, —
Not there they nobly tliink, and meanly do.

If tears were there, they must hv. happy t<'ars.
For [Sorrow's bitter fountains had rim (h-y ;
And, dindy o'er them, no regret appears,
Like the black cloud tliat mars a i)erfect sky ;

I. Shelley. Prometheus Unbound, Act IV.

A DREAM OF HEAVEN.

No liiin<5ry liefirt-ptiiiis eoine. nor discontent
Afflicts th(i soiil s(M-ene juul Innocent;
And tlicy wlio Iul)or lonjjj, and ]ii<5h !is|)ire,
Are still rcfn^slied, nor (!ver faint nor tire.

Nothing was liated, save tlie leper — 8inl
And he came not to trouble, as before,
In lower Eden : All who entered in
The spotless mien ot saint or seraph wore,
And ^ave no taint to aught of loV(diness
Or purity. 'I'liere were the fond caress,
The symi)athetic look, to comfort used.
And love, confiding, nevermore al)used.

No season's interchange, no waning year,
Moving the heart to sadness, tlierc were found;
No crisped hiaves. autumnal, brown and sere.
Nor polar airs, in all that happy round;
But llclds forever vernal, constant skies.
Haunted by spring-like hues and symphonies;
Wlu'ie vanished l)eams of youth— our hopcri, in train
With radiant fancies — reai)i)ear again.

No hoary sexton cleaves his burial sod

On holy hillside, or in restful vale;

No siditary beadsman stalks abroad.

'Mid !)rooding thoughts, and nutonlit shadows pale;

No gloomy face, nor melancholy mien.

Nor |)(Mnp of woe, deformed that [)erfe(;t scene;

No wailing winds, but chiming airs, that smite

The heart with an electrical delight.

There gamlxdM. in perpetual infancy.
'I'he "eternal child"' — its exev-bloonung fai.'c.
Cherubic. wr(>athcd with smih's that sweetest l»«
To her who putteth in his nesting place.

A DEE AM OF HEAVEN.

At ovc. lior <>,'ifli('st 1)oi-ii : Mh' opciiiiijjj llowcr
Of iiiiiidciiliood. .111(1 iii;uiiHt()(r> prime of power
Were there — divorced from Wiistiiii;. sordid cares.—
AjuI that ripe heauty fojiiid with silver hairs.

It seemeij tint some elysiaii holiday
Had h'ft this j^ate mi^iiarded at the east.
Where throiii^h the wall I made unhallowed way.
1M3' heart liad tremulous l)eatiii<i,'s. that Increased
As I approached that luminous faii(\ wluMice rare
Melodious tlirohhiiii;-s lloo(h'd all the air;
And saw such heini^s momently appear
As it seemed profanation to be near.

I stood alone, unvvelcomed and unseen.
Save by the Fniversal Ey<'. that sees
Amid our ii;uilty darkness: — smit with keen
Mysterious pain. T felt but ill at ease; —
I stood estran<4ed fi'om every hoi}' haunt.
Beariui? a nameless dread — ''a hidden want" —
A listless sadness, as of one would hear
The step of her who never can ai)pear.

Thus, while I stood apart, came <jjently near.
(Iina<^e. unspeakable, of lii^'ht and >^rac'(;I)
A seraph, chantin<5 with a voiee as ch^ir
As bird of purest note in shadiest jihwe:
rnconscious seemed she of each charm that wooed
Her there, so rapt in her beatitude ;
And as lier face turned toward me, anj^el-fair,
I started at the rapture shinin<»; there!

She saw me, wonderiiii;'. with astonisliM mien.
Where darken'd soon the shadow of dismay;
Then, swift as maid who hath tlu^ serjx'ut seen.
As the scared antelope, slie lied away :

f I

I !

|ii.' I

! ii

■ 1

A DEE AM OF HEAVEN.

■ :

I felt her horror: darkeiKMl all around —
Shadows that fell on dlscnchantod "ground ;
While a low, warning voi(;e possess'd my ^'JH":
'"Haste from this holy place ! What dost thou here?"

Then murmurs grew from every joyous shade,
And waxing notes of wrath and dis(!ontent,
With hollow soTuids that make the heart afraid :
I looked hehind, and saw that wliere I went
My touch had dinged and blackeuM, heaving blight,
Like that on gardens after frosty night
In red Octobei', — such a lothesome blot
On that celestial beauty I had bronglit.

Then from the brow of that dread mount, supreme.
Rolled clouds, that darted angry, forked tires.
While music ceased along the living stream ; —
Ceased Heaven's deep organ, and its sweetest lyres
Sent down no more melodions argosies.
Full-freighted, to the ear: Then heard I rise,
When all these voices suddenly were mute,
A gathering sound of vengeance and pursuit.

Then turned I. startled from my numb despair.
And a wild nameless fear my feet impelled ;
For, issuing from the T(;mple's wrathful glare.
The mailed angelic legions I beheld :
I deemed their lightnings stream'd around my head,
And smote me, while to the abyss I fled,
A blinded wretch, dragging with me a yoke
That plunged me downward! — falling, I awoke!

l'p:nvoy

The light enriches not the wounded eye,

Nor beauty's charm invites th' imbruted mind;

;;

A DREAM OF HEAVEN.

8fi

The inoviDj:: sweets of lI(!aveii-l)on] melody
Alone through cells of hearts harmonious wind :
Not all the bloom of Paradise could i)lea8e
The leprous soul, uncleansed of its disease;
Then, since Thy joy dwells onl}'^ with the ^ood,
O cleanse me, Jesu, with Thy soverei<^n hlood !

s^>

THK PROIMIKT.

(HE niountaiirs form is lifted Iii^li,
Against tho Ji/,iir»> of tlio slvy;
And far below appears iii view
The sea, with waves of darker blue.

But what triuiuphaut niultitiide
Once on this llowery mountain stood?'
What acclamations, loud and long.
Arose from an assembled throng?

A Prophet of the Lord stood there,
With form erect, and forehead bare.
And snowy crown, more radiant white.
Transfigured by the golden light.

'Tis he, by Cherith's rocky bed
Whom late the clamorous ravens fed f
Keen-eyed, unshorn, and rude of dress,' —
Stern herald, from the wilderness!

1. " Send and fjathcr to nie all Israel unto Mount Carmcl, and the proph-
ets of Baal, four hundred and fifty." — / A'/mrs, /S: iq,

2. " He went and dwelt by the brook Cherith, that is before Jordan. And
the ravens brouji^ht him bread and tiesh." — / Kiiiffs, ij: j, 6.

3. "He was an hairy man, and jjirt with a fi^irdle of leather about his
loins, and he said, ' It is Elijah the Tishbite.' " — 2 Kings, i: 8.

THE PROPHET.

Feiirless ho stood, without (llsiiuiy,
Surrounded hy that straiip^ array;
For vv<dl tho godless h'<^ions knew
That they were false, and he was true.

At HaaPs slirhje lliey falsely call, —

No sacrillelal lire shall fall,

Thouj^h streaming wounds, and frantle cries,

Insult the calm and sih'iit skies.'

But wlien the l*roph(»t"s hour has conje,
Ills Lortl shall not he deaf aiul diunh;
But rocks unhewn, on <^rassy sod,
Shall hrlghtcn with the lire of God."

And soon upon the evenin*? air
Was heard the Prophet's voice in prayer:
" O Lord ! thy fount of tire unseal !
As Thou art God, Thyself reveal !'''

Ah, with what ardor rose, intcuise,

That supplicatin<5 ehxpience.

Till winj^'d fi'oin lleavon, the sheeted flame —

The sui)i>lianfs liery answer came !*

Lo! round the stones the Prophet laid.
The searchinj^ glow devouring played;
And sounding, said in every ear. —
•• Beware of sin, for God is here!"

1. "And they crietl ;ik)ud, and cut tin. insclves with knives and lancets,
till the blood pushed out upon them ; . . .there was neither voice, nor any to
answer, nor any that ret^ariled.'" — / h'i'>i<fs, rS: 28, 2q.

2. " And Elijah took twelve stones. ...and.... built an altar, in the name
of the Lord." — / Kings, iS: 31, jj.

3. "The God that answereth hy lire, let him be (Jotl." — r Kings, iS: 24.

4. " Then the fire of the Lord fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and
the wood, and the stones, and licked up the water that was in the trench."

— / Kings, /S: 3S.

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THE PROPHET.

I i

Th' astonied people, in amaze,

Shrink from tlie preternatural blaze,

And falling on tlieir faces, cry, —

"The Lord is God!— the Lord most IIigh!">

Ah, vainly had the men of pride
The living God so long defied !
On stubborn necks the sword He drew.
And priest and idol perished too.'

'J'hus, when a giant Wrong is grown.
And Evil builds itself a throne ;
When, *' Wlio is God V" tlie proud ones say,
••'That we sliould worship or obey!"

Then from His ancient scut in Heaven
The word goes forth — the sign is given :
''The Lord is God!'" tlie people cry;
And Kiglit sliall live, and Wrong sliall die.

O in tliJit long-desired day
For whicli tlie fuitliful strive and pray.
May we be found with those wiio (stand
Witli God, and truth, and native land!

In every age, and everywliere,
The burtlicn of tlie Propliet's prayer —
Thougli not of tire, or vengeful sword —
Sliall win an answer from the Lord.

1. "And wlicn all tlii; pconle saw it, they fell on their faces; and they
said, 'The Lord, He is the God ; the Lord, He is the God.' " — / King's, iS:jq.

2. "And Elijah said unto them, ' Take the prophets of Baal; let not one
of them escape.' And they took them : Anil Elijah brouj^fht them down to
the brook Kishon, and slew them there."—/ Kin^s, /S: ^.

DESTINY.

Shut not thy merciful cars to our cry.— Collect.

|HEN what were Hell? — The stain of sin inrtxed,
Outwashen never; angel. Love, sliiit out.
Anil the door l)olte(l with a hateful doubt;
Tlie pang of thought, with no sweet nulling mixed ;
Tonnenting Recollection, serpent red^

Lifting its burning front out of the sea
That covers all the past ! O save f ron» um?
Tlie memory of a morning promise, tlead
Forever! It were Hell — to have the frown.

And not the smile of God! — 'twere misery
My simple, unblessed self to ever be —
To have the thorn and nightshade for my crown-
To add unto my sin — Eternity !

And 'neath its weight be sinking lower down.

II.

HO can repair anew the fatal breaeli.'
When our last hope is shatt«'rM at the grave. —
When lie is scorned, who did our souls beseeeh.
And hung in blood oar ruined life to save?

I. Ucb.^6: \-6^

i I

DESTINY,

What shall abate the ranktiess of the rue?

Or v/ho the bitter wormwood moderate?

Alas I alas ! who did ourselves undo.

And cannot sweeten our envenom'd state
With one pure tear of penitential grief,

Or one relenting throe, however brief!

How may we bide the wrathful thunderstroke

Of him whose Son we spurn'd and ill-entreated?
How, when His love has long and vainly burned,

Shall from His breath the ireful tiame be heated !

.©UT can it
A^ That am

III.

be, O Lover of mankind !
any soul must dwell where Love is not-
Dead to itself — in prison blank and blind —
Chain'd to a curs'd and miserable lot?

Ah, that this might not be!— that hearts so sore-
So wretched — might obtain their hopes renevv'd.
And Darkness boast such conquest nevermore !
Ah. that from Evil, to the far-off Good,

Through woes uiniumber'd. and long penal years.
The soul — eased of eternal doom and blight —
Might come, at last ! and that^ it thought not gain,
Be clearly seen — a slowly-dawning light —

Pursued— desired — obtained, with rapturous te.ars.

And Heaven be greeted with a new-born strain !

4. IV.

*f*F an almighty One demanded Hell

•f* 1" sustain the balance of a universe —

The awful concert, the unending curse,

With the diviner halleluia's swell —
And there, perforce, some must forever dwell ! —

Might I with lifted accents glorify

The will of my ordaining Deity,

DESTINY.

In that abode of darkness terrible?

From that black vastness mi^ht I. rising, cling

To the white skirt of light that sweeps the stars—
The garment-glory my Anointed wears —
And with a tire-tongne. sweetly painfid. sing?

But ah, the Prince of Universal Grace
Wishes not any in a hopeless case !

i j»0 ! from the lowest deep of that extreme

-"^ And fearful region would my voice arise,
Ambitious of supernal melodies! —
And. as a bird's heart pants for the tirst gleam

Of the young dayspring, when from the green spray —
Fresh, dewy covert! — rising, it may spring,
Bathing in the new light each happy wing,
And ever singing, singing, soar away!' —

!So, sitting in God's shadow'd place, below.

Awhile — by some strange oversight? — my soul

Should not from the angelic Lo: e be lost ;

But. when the outward-opening gate might throw

A beam from her lov'd Paradise, would roll

Her anthem, greeting the harmonious host!

Dante, Pariidiso; Canto xxiii, 1—9.

1 T

I I

PRAISE.

PRAISE ye the Lord ! for wlio but He
Whose face no niortul eye can see —
On wlioni His angels scarce can gaze —
Is worth J' of adoring praise?

His light and pow(;r extend afar.
From sun to sun. and star to star.
Through spaces wing hatli never crossed.
And where our wandering tlioughts are lost.

His wisdom framed the grand design,
And gave eacli glowing orb to shine.
And in their grand harmonious ways
To move in order to His praise.

Praise ye the Lord ! for it was He
Who saved our lost Humanity I
Above all power of tongue or pen,
His wondrous love to dying men !

Let every creature that hath breath
Sing to the Lord of life and death ;
And let the shining choirs on high,
Their rapturous hosannas cry !

In Him the virtues all reside.

By Him is every good supplied :

Then praise the Lord — with gladness praise !

Let all on earth the anthem raise !

je:rusaive:m.

" When He beheld the City He wept over it."

CITY of my love — Jerusalem !
Thou sittest as a queen, with diadem
And royal mantle on :
O city of my heart — I see thy glory gone !

city of mj' love — Jerusalem !

1 mourn for thee, and worship's richest gem

Of snowy stone :
I see the foe rush in, and thou art overthrown !

city of mj'^ love — Jerusalem !

1 mourn for thee, but more I mourn for them —

Thy stubborn sons, self-willed:
1 see their hate return — their awful doom fulfilled !

city of my love— Jerusalem !

1 came to save — I came not to condemn ;

To guard and gather thee,
As bird her brood, 1 came, — but ye would none of Me !

O city of ni}-^ love— Jerusalem !
ITadst thou but known the things reveale«l to them
12

JERUSALEM.

Whose hearts are timely wise ;
But nmn thej' must be hid forever from tliine eyes!

city of my love — Jerusalem !

1 see thee sit without thy diadem,

Sunk from thy queenly state ! —
Behold thy house is left unto thee desolate!

The flame mounts high on Zion's wall.

The scornful foe is come ;
Her self-devoted children fall

Beneath the holy dome !

Hark ! hear the brazen portals clang !

The Koman helm gleams high : —
Just now the sword to slaughter sprang,

And bleeding victims die !

Fast flows the rising purple tide,
Fast grows thy glory dim ; —

Ah, there was One ye crucified^
If ye remember Him !

The moss creeps on the crumbling dome.
The streets are old and worn ;

And from their haunted, holy home,
The exiled children mourn.

Yet, O recall thy people, Lord ! —

Thy ancient sons restore !
And let the darkness, most abhorred,

Benight their eyes no more !

SNOW IN OCXOIBKR.'

ffj SCAKLET-VESTKD QUEEN! 'twas yesterday
(^^ I saw th(M' <i;Iori(ms 'inong thy woods and hills,
And heard the rustle of uiituinnal leaves;
But, lo ! from Cuuiberland's blue hills and shores,
And yon bright Islets, set as if to guard
The eoast beyond them from the tumbling Bay,*
And where swol'n Avon lifts his turbid waves'
Upon the sunny beach of Summerville,^
The snow gleams thro' this chilly morning air,
New faU'n, as an angel's plumage white;
Or like that throne of spotless majesty
Keared in the heavens.

Soft speaks the wooing sun.
And earth makes answer with a smiling light.
Glad that an army of contending clouds
Hare been dispersed b}' his triumphant beams,

1. Seen on the "Five Islands," ofT the Cumberland shore, near Parrs-
boro, Nova Scotia.

2, More properly Basin of Minus. The Bay lies outside and beyond the
bluft' of Blomidon.

3. " Far o'er the lea the breathiiif^ cattle low
And the full Avon lifts the darkened wave."

— CllATTERTON.

4. A port in Hants County, just across the river trom us.

SNOW IN OCTOBER.

That have more power to dn/zlo than to warm.
He reigns all radiant through his wclkin-hoine.
Levels his spears at crouching JUoniidon,
And levels all his golden arrows, too,
To wake the five fair torins that slumbering lie.
Charmed 'mid the waters.

Darkens and withdraws
The beamy god whose race was well begun :
Eclipsed and shadowy, I behold them still
Afar in Minas, rising from the tide,
All bridal-tired — daughters of the sea ;
Not as erst, in the purple mellowing liglit
That flashed from flowery Summer as slie passed.
Nor garmented in Spring's reviving green;
But drest in brcde of silvery woven snow,
Brought by the sprite that skims tiie Norland hiils.
Hid in the greyness of a 8ol)er cloud.

Ah, soon the glistening glory shall appear

In billowy ridges by the fenced rtelds;

And the dark lirs, like Parian pyramids.

Shall shoulder their white masses thro' the woods.

The pines and larches wail amid the cold.

The birch emboss her silver coat with ice,

The gaunt elm shout, and wrestle with tlie wind;

For where the Indian Summer lingered long.

With the clear essence of distilled light.

And sweet'ning breath that sighing nature gives

Where falling leaves are scatter'd, lying hid

In wither'd heaps beneatli the fleec}' drifts,

Of forest spoils the beechen shrub alone

Holds fast its rustling leaves of paly gold.

Ah, Muse ! and must we seek a shade to-day.
No longer vernal? Yet some painted sprays

SNO W IN OCTOBEB*

Hang out brave bannerR In our wontPtl grove :
Tlilther will we betake ourselves, alone,
And list the nuirmur of tlie swelling stream.
And feel the rush of tlie tierce, winged wind.
Dipping our urn in frosted Jlippocrene.
But, O ye summer spirits, drinking dew.
And mounting on the wings of butterflies,
Fly these cold springs, that gurgle a complaint!
This is no hour when ye may move abroad.
The birds that charm'd the air of summer-time.
Have left their nests 'ndd the forsaken Ixjughs. —
And ye must go: but we. () Muse, will >*tay,
And on the «.'risped and frosty leaves sit down.
And strike our wintry harp in memory
Of Summer, ever beautiful, but gone!

Now, on oui reach of Avon's nmrky tide.
The snow descends from clouds tumultuous piled
Against the sun; the sparkling shreds of down
Are glimmering fast ; and. far as eye can reach —
While I stand gazing — do the Isles beyond,
And the dark-rolling waters of tlu; Hay,
Become obscure; while, dim, tlie whitening fields.
The near-hand farm-house, and the orchard tiees
Show indistinctly thro' the falling veil.

Winter with all his storms will soon be here
To whistle at our doors : his wildest blasts
Shall howl, from piny prisons of the north
Loosen'd, to wanton round our guarded homes,
Like wolves, enraged they may not enter there ;
Hushing our happy streams with stifling frost.
And choking leaves, and wreaths of smothering snow.
But let him come ! I love that awful roar—
The anger of disturbed elements ;

SNO W IN OCTOBER.

Ami Xuturo sootlios me with lior Imlst'rons play.

TIk; witiiiti that swcop the; iiilln, Hwatliiii^ thuin ruund

With sifted h(m|i.s that ^littor hi i\\v huh,

After tlie roinphig juyoiis night is past

On wings of fnry ;— ay, tlie wliooping winds

Tiiat linnt out E(;ho, sleeping in lier cave,

VVitli ghostly wliips iasli down tlio foaiuy sua,

Or mingle sleet and surf along the sliore, —

Walie a responsive rapture in my breast!

^::|

1 1

Then mount your cloudy cliariots. O ye winds!
Unrein j'our surial steeds, and sweep along!
iSlirieiv in tlie crevices and deeps of eartli,
Plunge thro' the forests, and, with whooping cries,
Pull down the groaning inonarchs of the waste.
And crash them lieadlong 'mong the creaking trees;
Then, distant rage, as if some spirit pursued
Swept through the shelter of tlie shady vales,
Alone, deep-mourning; while, attentive, awed,
Mortals stand listening, if they may discern
The meaning of the mystic Voice tliey hear !

Voice of Jehovah ! Thou art speaking still.

In tones of ancient majesty, to man !

In rusliing blasts 1 hear Thee, and thy voice

Sounds from the rolling wheels of cloud, in thunder!

1 hear Thee in the scented sighs of summer,

And in these hoarsely-wailing winds that come.

And grow tempestuous about our doors.

When starlessly the Autumn night descends:

But still moiv clearly thou art heard within, —

A thrilling Voice, and near akin to silence,

With sweet reproof, Devotion's minister.

VVe hear, and bow before Thee, while the pines

Sway on the hills beyond, where Thou art treading:

SNOW IN OCTOBER.

We, in our cottage, by the evening fire,
With reverence name Thee; and our ^rey-hah'M slre-
The patriarch of onr jjroup— puts np a prayer:
With rising liynniH we laud Thy holy Name;
Ulent with the des(>ant of the stormy wind,
Perchance our evensong ascends to Thee,
Accepted in Thy high abode of praise.

ON ISIvKSBORO.

t —

•f' SIT by the sea, this evening,
y On this isle's encliantecl shore,
And I list to the voice that liath charmed me
In the days that are no more.

And still the spell comes o'er me.

As the lisping ripples creep ;
For I hear the tongue of Ocean —

The lips of the mighty Deep !

Beyond the golden waters

I see the sun go down ;
And the purple hills are dreaming

Afar over Camden town.

And the white sails that are stealing

Adown the quiet Bay,
To the haunted shores, I see not.

Are bearing my thoughts away-

For Ariel glideth near me.
And a new Miranda's face'

I. My mind was then filled with images of " The Tempest," which 1 had
just been re-reading.

ON ISLE SB ORG.

101

Ilatli made u traiKiuil sunsnine
ill this sweet and shady phice.

I hold in my hand a voluino,

riiat one lias ;^iven to ine.'*
With a spray of the keen wild briar.

That has »;rown beside the sea;—

Till, with the niinj^led memories —
The ira<;ranee of long-tlown years,

And the soothin<'- son<f of the Poet,
My heart is touched to tears.

For this, to me. is a casket.

That doth piecious things enshrine;

And th«' voice of a heait is uttered
In many a hurried line.

"lis no wine-tilh'd vase, tine-carven.

With ti<»ures sleek and slim;
■Tis an earthen howl, with life-blood

That mantles to the brhn.

And he. whose son<^ this evening

Still holds uie by the sea.
Had a sense of the imseen beauty.

And the unheard melody.

lint the Hard hath ceased from sino;ing,

Whose ej'e had i)rivile^e
Of tlie lighted land immortal,

'I'hrough the shade of the " Covered BrUhje.''''

O Poet I — all men's brother I
Where'er, to-idght, thou art,

2. A copy of David Barker's P«)cms, prtstntcd to ine by the Poet's

brother.

ill:

ill!''

lOS

ON ISLESBOBO.

I i

My kindred spirit greets thee,
VVitli these beatinfi;s of luy lieart.

If thou hadst faults I ask not,
Nor what was thy chosen creed ;

For tlie poor and oppressed and trodden,
I only hear thee plead.

I look not, scrutinizing.
For the faults that all may find ;

Thou hast sung the songs that may hearten
And unify mankind.

And I dream I should go to see thee,
From this splendid sunset shore ;

But thy place is the home eternal,
And thou canst be seen no more.

But, perhaps, when these dreams are over,

And the painful toiling ends,
In the land where the shadows are not,

We may meet as old-time friends.

QUILT IN SOLITUDE.

^HE wretched have iiu hour to weep,
And penitence may bring repose ;
But there are thouglits that cannot sleep,

And endless, solitary woes : —
For me sin's sorrow hath no close ;
I am a soul stain'd and unshriven.
To whom no soothing hour is given.

The erring tind an hour to pray.

The faint on pitying Mercy call;
The freshness of an earlier day.

When, innocent, he trusted all.
Again upon his heart n>ay fall ; —
My poisoned spring of life doth tend
To bitterness that hath no end.

Eyes, that have wept away their bloom.
May light their orbs of faded blue ;

And pallid cheeks the rose resume,
As fields their llowery robes renew ;

But smiles have bidden me adieu ;

Nor laughter, on its ruby shore

Shall break its joyous wavelets more.

104

I, 'I

.I'T

GUILT IN SOLITUDE.

For. ill this lonely horrnit coll,

Wjitching the hosts that in he.aven's bower.
And niffht's etornul palace, dwell,

I spend, nnseen, the midni<?ht hour.
The captive of some awful Power;
HeiMunbed in heart, with cankering pain.
And branded with the curse of Cain.

Star of lost IIopi^! long set — O where.
Amid these shades, will ye arise?

When will I see your lustre rare
Amid the glory of yon skies?

Alas! ye ne'er shall greet my eyes!

At noon of day, or night, the air

Breeds onlj' (Musing and despair.

Ears! but for one; unceasing cry I —
Eyes! but for one unfading stain! —

In vain from these I seek to lly, —
To lag or linger is in vain!

A fearful breathing haunts the plain;

And if I walk by wood or hill.

The spectre dogs my footsteps still.

Oft, 'mid a hurrying hiunan sea.

I've swept along the diz/ying street.
And felt that all men looked at me.

Till terror wing'd my hastening feet;
And ere I reached my dim retreat.
The rills poured down a crimson tlood,
The evening sun seemed bathed in blood !

One awful Voice in all things speaks! —
It shrieks out of the twilight glade;

Against each shuddering hill it breaks.
And rustles under every shade:

QUILT IN SOLITUDE.

lOB

My choek is blaneliod, my soul dlsratiyed ;
Then niofkiiig poals aflright the air,
And ring the dirge of my despair I

I feel not earthly joy. nor need,
Nor the wild pulse of strange desire;

Eeinote frou) men I sit, and feed

My heart with keen, remorseful lire:

I have nor wife, nor child, nor sire; —

Happy am I. in this, that no

Unhappy life can share \\\y woe.

For, surely as the bird of eve

Shall charuj with song her favorite: vale.
And surid)' as the heart nuist grieve,

VV» bliss of love is changed to bale,
I ^ pronounce my doleful tale: —

Judgment and doom upon me press.
And the voice whispers me — "Confess!"

And Love — is but a thought resigned,
Awakening seai'ce a passing sigh.

Like music breathed upon the wind,
'J'hat wins not to the ear reply :

Tis not for me to love, but die ! —

I dare not link thy fate with mine —

lam a murderer — Madeline]^

I. Bulwer's ^'■Eugene Aram" furnished me the sufjji^estion of these
stanzas; and the name mentioned above, is that of thti j^ntice the novelist
furnished for the unfortunate schohir.

SIR RICHARD ORKNVILLE.

'■i I

(HE days of chivalry are passed,
And men love war no more;
They pale at the bugle's thrilling blast,
And the thundering cannon's roar.

But days there were when the warrior's steed

Scented the fight afar ;
And the warrior's spirit follow'd the lead

Of tlie battle's crimson star.

In days of Britain's virgin Queen,

When Britons ruled the seas,
A braver than Sir Richard ne'er

Flung standard to the breeze.

And Spain had learned to fear him —

He seemed a demon dread, .
Whose phantom ship swept o'er the sea,

From some haven of the dead.

Lord Thoiuas Howard sailed awa)',

To fight with haughty Spain ;
With six good line-of-battle ships

He sailed to the Spanish Main.

sin RICHABD GRENVILLE.

107

But 8lckne<?s and fierce tempest

Were his only enemy,
THI downward swept the Spanish fleet,

Witli ships, full fifty-three.

Then lusty brave Sir Thomas
Cried, •' Save ye while ye may ! "

He would not look on valiant lives
Flung uselessly away.

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville :

" I've braved death on the sea
For many a year, and without fear

To meet my fate am free ;
But I will not do a deed of shame.
Nor brand my loyal Enoflish name,

By turning now to flee ! "

Then spake he to his sailors —

A hundred men had he —
"Come, my brave boys, we'll stay, I ween.
And for the honor of our Queen

Will we disdain to flee ! "

Then bore he on the Spaniards,

With all his canvas spread ;
Into the fray alone went he, —
'Twas afternoon — the hour was three —

The other ships had fled.

Five mighty warrior-ships came on,
And tower'd above them high ; —

Full fearlessly, full dauutlessly
The hundred went to die.

They lock'd the little vessel in —
'Twas a fearful sight to see ! —

106

' ';

SIB RICHARD G RENVILLE.

For till' Jill- was full of slieettid \hiuw
From their artillery!

A bavvliii^jf hell rolled roiuitl them I —

The thimders louder •(row;
Hut never au inch, brave Britons

(jive up to the tierce foe:
Two ships were sunken in the main.
And near a thousand Si)aniurds slain —

They plied them blow for blow !

Amid tlie rout the sun went down —
Went down in fire and blood;

The crimson night above shone briglit.
And below the crimson tlood;

The w<'lkin shook with shriek and roar,

And the decks were slippery with gore.
Where ever}- sailor stood.

Through all the long and learful hours

Tile midnight bjvttle rolled.
Wliile hearts of oak. by God's good grace.

Tlieir posts of vantage liold,
Till fifteen hundred foemeu

Were lying still and cold.

Then on that great Armada

Fell terror and dismay;
"■ These are not men ! " with whitening lips,

The Spanisli sailors say ;
•' Mother ! we fight with devils I "

They did to Mary pray.

When slowly the gray morn arose,
'Twas the strangest sight. I ween.

That ever on this earth of ours
By human eye was seen I

SIR BICHARD O RENVILLE.

109

The Rriton'.s Hlii|)— a sliattorM hulk,

III nun — stood at bay;
VVhile round hor in a traiico of fear,

The whole Armada lay.

But of the hundrod sailors

Few. very few, remain;
And dauntless IJiehard (jlieiivllle lies

Sore wounded, "midst the slain.

Then, with a hold and eheery voice.

Ills last eomuiand he «5ave :
'• Now s|)lit the ship. <i,ood <j;uinier.

And sink her in the wave!
TIs best we all ;;•() down with her.

As well hellts the brave.''

But tliev were erown'd with iirlorv —
Their wreaths were fairly won :

''\ay, we have ehildnMi, we have wives,
And for their sakes we save our lives,—
We deem our dutv doue."

Tlu^y bore him to the Spanish d<!ck;

And by the mast reclined,
lie heard, in pain, tlieir (-(turtly praise.
Then his spent form he did upraise.

And nobly thus rejoined:

'' I have but done my duty,

As any man should do.
Aiid loyally have served my Que(Mi,

And to my Faith i)een true.
14

■\ I

110

STIi RICHARD GRENVILLE.

''And li<M«? I. Ikicliurd <Jn'uvill«'.

Do Iciivc tlic earth Ix'liiiid;
With j^Iadsonio spirit I (l<|>jirt.

Aiul vvltii a quiet mind \ " '

God rest the lieart of JK'roes,
Wlio will not live in shame I

They die, hut leave the world tlio light
Of their unspotted fame.

I. Two pofts of our cfiitiiry liavr i;iviii us a ptji'tical record of this famous
action, ami hotli liavc i;ivc-n a vcrsidii of the dyiii^r spc'i-cli of (jrenvillc. As
good vviiif, but not llic hist, wl- taku the cii|) from (iirahl Massiy :

'"Hire die I, Kichard Grenvillc,

W'itli a joyful ami (udet mind ;
I reach a soldier's iiid ; I leave

A soldier's lame luhiml,
W'lio for his (|\ieeii and eoiintrv fmj^ht,
I<"or honor and ri'lii^inn wrouy^ht.
Ami died as a true solilier ouiilit.'"

But now we hear 'I'ennyson, in his noble " lutllad of the Fleet :"

"And the stately Spanish men to their llati-shi|) bore him then,
Where they laid'him by the mast, old Sir Kichard, caught at last.
And they ])raised him to his face with their conrtlv foreign j^race;

Hut hi' rose upon tlii'ir decks, and he cried :
'I liavc fought for (^jiei n and I'aith like a valiant man and true;
I have onlv done my duty as a man is bound to do :
With a joyful s|)irit I. Sir IJichard Grenville, die!'
And he fell upon their decks, and he died !"

Such simple-hearted doers of i^reat duties are worthy of ^^rcat poets; they
invite the harp with attractive lustres :

"A vesture very ^'lorious

Their shining- spirits wear,
Of noble deeds."

iVI O R N I N C

I'KOM ChAI IKH. I

,\ILV tln' lark. Mitlic incsstMiujcr of day,
5r Saluted with his soiiij ilic iu(>nii'';jj ^>"iiy ;
And llciy l*li(i'l)us liailcil witli (laiM'ii)«; li;Lrlit
Tho dewy ticlds tliat. !iiis\v»'riMii;. sp.n-klcd l)ri«^ht:
The »^oldni sticaiiis that lioiii liis l)()S(>iii flow
lllumiiu'd all the shady world helow.
Refreshed the lloweis. and in the proves so <;r(!en
IJried all the silvei- drops that on the leaves weic seen.
Then Arclte rose from sleep, and hied him forth
To ^reet the May. and join her <;('n('ial mirth:
Monnteil his eonrsei'. who so li^^htly trod
Made scarce a dint in the elasti<' sod;
'J'hough. as if winded with tire, h«' movml ahroaU.

Across the blossomed lields. in playful mood.

lie sped his course toward a iieii;lil)oi'inj^ wood. —

A shady «jfi'ove of tall and stately trees,

The haunt of many a hii'd and wanderin<; breeze.

Arrived, his nimble steed secure he made.

And Areite entered 'neath the cooliui; shade;

I. The ''Knight's Tale.

112

MOHNINQ.

FaHliioiu'd of woodbiiir aiid yoiiii^j liawtliorn sin'ayw
A <j;iirl!iinl <;iiy, ♦ * ♦
Tlion fji(;«;d tlio rising huh. with lusty cheer,
And sung Ids Miiy-diiy cjirol loud and (dear.

Once. If fell npon a morn in May

Tlial Kndly In fairer ;;nise was seen

Than the pure lily on its htalk of ^reen.

Or that youn^\ llowi'ry linie with blossoms new;

And her fair face viecl with tlu; rose's hue, —

I know not which was lovelier (d' the two.

ncfoi'c the sun had lit his (»as|ein lire,

What time tlie dews he;;;em each grassy spire.

Sh(» was aris'n from sleep, and w«dl l)cdi<;ht, —

For May-time speedeth slumber, with the night;

The genial s«'ason sliis each gentle breast.

And moves the sluggard to forego his rest.

Thus did the gentle Kndly apjtcar.
To d(> her honor to the bloondng year;
In all her maiden beauty went she forth.
As freshly clad as was the gladsome earth ;
liraid«Ml in tress(>s long, her y(dlow hair
J^ookM richly g<dden in the sunny air.
Then in the gai'den. when the smi had risen.
She graceful walked below I'alamon's prison.
And gathered llowers of parti-wliitc and red.
To weave a garland to adorn her head;
And as an angel, heaven's bright bowers among,
Some sweet and simple nudody she sung.

pi..

131 KU ON THfc: SKA.

Sinall land-birds urc soiitctimus cau^lit l<y stroiijir winds and carried out
to sea.

liird oil tlio st'jil
How wet tliy wiiij^s with ll;isliiii«^ fojim.

Ami thy phiiua^o h(Mh';i<^i5l<Ml witli brine:
lliis the kiss of tho curolliii*^ sou
111 tlic toiMpcst, or broad suiisliiiu»,

Iku'ii ph^asiiiit to tlic'oV
I SCO tlico a tlionsiiiid mil«'s, or more,
I'roin tlic <^r('eii and ^old of tliy ha[)i)y sliore,
Wiii^iii«; tiiy way oN'r tho iKirrcii sea,
Bereft of tliy tuneful, ebullient i^lee —

Bird on the seal

Bird on the sea !
Toucliin«^ th(! wave with thy soft white breast,

Art tlioii l()()kiii»^ for rest?
Beneath thee the pitiless l)iIlows sweep

Of an unsunned de«'p,
And thou art out on a weary (^uest :

Where is thy nest? —

On what sunny shore,

'Neath what cloudless sky

114

BIRD ON THE SEA.

Hast thou left thy iiuiti! iiiiciired-for to die?
Come, vviiiidcrer lone, to our friendly bark.
For the wjiv(!S are wild, and the ni>^ht comes dark,

And the barren sea

Hath no place for tliee.
And no love to give — so may'st come to me ;

Thou may'st come; and live,

Unrestrained and free —
Bird on the sea!

liird on the sea !

Ah, little bird.

Thy presence hath stirred

Stran«;e thou<^hts in me.
And wakened fond memories out of their sleep!
Somewhere I somewhere — Ciod doth knowl —
In the treacherous ocean th.it rolls below.

In caves of the deep

IJes a gentle heart

That hath ceased to beat, —
A heart so gentle, and brave, and sweet.
So full of manhood, and genial heat,
With a royal love in its inmost i)art !

The years they come, like the clouds, and go,
And the litful winds blow high and low,
And the s<ia beneath moves to and fro,

Incessantly;

And back to the shore

My boy comes nevermore :
Heard ye aught of him who went from me?
See ye aught of him. where ye sing and soar,

J3ird on the sea?

Bird on the sea !

Is there a rest for thee?

BIBD ON THE SEA.

115

fs tnorp enso to the iu'Hit from this worhl's mls(M'y?

With a y<'«irMiii«^ stroii*^.

I lonjj;'. and lon;i^

For a simny shoro.

And a happy son";.
Where my loiif; lost mates thick-clustered are —
A dim, sweet land, afar, afar I

On a stormfiil day

1 strayed away.
S\yept out to the deeps from a sludtered bay.
'Tis ni^litl — Ah I eometh a brighter day —

Bird on the sea?

Bird on the sea!
What! art thou rested and flown? —
From my sij^ht for aye art thou ^one.
Soarin<»: aloft in the purple haze.
Mid the settin<|: sim's departing rays?

I weep, and look aftei- thee.

Afar over the sea;
For I am thy fellow-wanderer.
Win{2^in<jj my way. and makinj^ my ujoan.
Seekin<^ for rest and tindlni^ none.

Perhaps, onee more

Thon wilt find the shore.
And thy unite, and thy nestlings warm with her;

lint my exile heart,

Hath that a part
In the home-felt joy that awaiteth thee —

Bird on the sea?

Fliest alone — despairing — fiee —

Bird on the sea?
The latest gleauj of the orient star
lias burned to ashes yon cloudy bar.

116

BIRD ON THE SEA.

That in tho West shono 'r)rllliiintly;
Thfi glooming wing of the muffled night
TIsis hidden tlie star-tipped lieavens from sight,
And tlie winds begin to blow.

Where wilt thou flit, in sad affright,
While the billows darkle and sweep below? —

And is there a way
That a soul must go

Dark and astray —
And the gulf below —

Never! — never I — never to know
Of hope, or Savior — or future release
From a gloomy prison — or calming peace?
Will the brine of Fate glide on forever.
And move in deathful play —

Hurrying on —
Relentless still to the soul's endeavor —

Hurrying, hurrying forever

To th(! grave of a dying sun.

In tlie night-guarded West?

Shall ii heart forever weep.

And a memory never sleep?
Shall a soul still live, yet the death-chill creep

To its inmost core?

O God ! is there no )'est — no rest —
For a soul that is unblest!

Ah, yes ! a rift I see.
And a star I — There is hope for me !
My treasure shall all bi; gathered out of the cruel seal
Many nights have o'er me hovered.
But all nights shall soon be o'er;
The wet winding-sheet hatli covered
Not my love forevermore !

BIBD ON THE SEA.

The still heart shall beat again,
Rescued from the hungry main ;
And the happy hours shall wing,
Liglit-laden with new joy:
The magic waves of a mystic sea
Shall mingle siuishine and melody;
And, brighter than genii of the deep,
Shall hover over the sleep
Of ni}'^ sailor-boy.

There is hope, there is joy, for a wing as free.
And a heart as constant, as One above

Hath given to thee !
To the ear that is open, to th«! eye that would see.
To faith, in the dark — in the sunshine, love —
There is never despair, foi" with God we move —

Fiird on the sea!

OUR HEAVENIvV FATHERLAND.

Imitated from the (iernian of Arndt.

llj IIEHE is the Heavenly Fatherland?
^^^ Is it on tliis, or otlier straiul?
Is it by Earth's most stately streams?
Or is it in some place of dreams? —

Ah. no. no. no I
That Countiy is not bonnded sol

Where is the heait's trne Fatherland?
Where warm waves beat on silver sand?
Where ^reen-elad islands fragrantly
Are girdled by wide leagues of sea? —

Ah. no, no, no I
Our Fatherland's not bounded so!

Where is it then— that Fatherland?

Is It the Briton's — German's strand?

Is it the land of Bruce, or Tell?—

Has Earth the home shall please me well?—

Ah, no. no. no I
Our Fatherland's not bounded so!

Where is our Heavenly Fatherland?
Come, tell where is that wished-for strand !

OUR HEAVENLY FATHERLAND.

119

Is it below the (l«'ep. deep sea.
Where crystal halls all radiant be? —

Ah. no. no, no I
Our Fatherhind's not bounded so.

Where, then, may be that Fatherland?
Is it in yon sky-spaces <;rand?
Is it wh(Me fretted tires from high
Entrance tlu; poet's dreanilng eye? —

Ah, no, no, no I
Our Fatherland's not bounded so!

Where is the heart's true Fatherland?
Is it on Morning's cloudy strand?
Or where in serial heights so gaj'.
The golden sunset nuilts away?—

Ah. no. no, no !
Our Fatherland's not boinided sol

Where is the heart's true Fatherland?
Where is that deep-d<;8ired strand?
Is it on far Judea's hill?
Is it where flows Siloa's rill:'

Ah, no, no, no I
Our Fatherland's not bounded sol

Where is the heart's true Fatherland?
Wliere hearts each other understand.
Where Truth's clear-soiuidiiig accent rings,
'»Vhere the Soul innocently sings?

Ay, that's the laud ! —
Them, brother, is thy Fatherland.

Where is the heart's true Fatherland?
Where is this sweet enchanted land? —
Is it where Love hath come to dwell,

fT'^flft'1'''

fi I

f ii

120

OUB HEAVENLY FATHEBLAND.

And holy hymns enraptured swell?

Ay, that's the land!—
There, brother, is thy Fatherland I

Where is thy Heavenly Fatherland?
Where is that rare and radiant land? —
Is't where the saved in Jesus dwell,
Where Meekness rei<jns imperial? —

Ay, there's the land I —
Thy high, exalted Fatherland I

Where is thy Heavenly Fatheiiand?
Where are the many mansions planned? —
Is it where souls in l)eauty glow,
Where only JSin is held a toe? —
Ay. there's the land ! —
There, brother, is thy Fatherland !

There is thy heart's true Fatherland, —
Where men delight in (iod's eommand,
Where honor lives in speaking eyes,
"And in the heart love warmly lies;" —

That is thy land !—
Thy heart's true land — thy Fatherland !

Where is thy heart's true Fatherland? —
Where like a tiery ranjpart, stJind
God's Angels? — where, assembled bright,
Are fair forms precious to our sight? —

Ay, there's the land I —
There, brother is thy Fatherland I

Where is thy heart's true Fatherland? —
Saj', is it where, at God's right hand.
We every wound of Love may trace,
And look upon Inunanuel's face? —

Ay, there''s thy land ! —
There is thy Heavenly Fatherland !

,■■ ^m

■»

XO rvIV P^ATHKR.

^i^IIY looks and tones are in my heart to-night,

; ; As when tliou — j^nardian of my infant*}'! —

Wonltlst take thy little ones upon thy knee.

Betwixt the shadows and home's evening light.
Speaking sweet rhymes, and tales of phantasy,
And singing many a lusty roundelay.

Perchance, from Ocean — bleak abod«; of storms —
Domain of terrors to our childish thought! —
Thou late hadstcome. with curious treasure fraught !-

Corals, and sea-fans, and the shelly forms,

All pearly-hned, from Neptune's palace hall:

Then liadst thou many wonder-words to say
To longing cars — the sombre and the gay, —

Nor were we quite content till thou hadst told us all.

We saw^ thee walking on the breezy deck

At midnight, and the starry guide surveyed
That led thee : then thou broughtest to our aid

Fancy, to pore upon the sinking wreck,

And the frail tossing boat that sheer'd away.
With eyes dilate, we shared their dumb dismay

Who, on long-rolling South Atlantic seas,

Fled their doomed ship, and, streaming on the breeze,

TO MY FATHER.

Saw tVie swift mocking fires liglit up tlieir way.
Yet, burning sliips, nor watery gulfs, the wJiile,
Should rob us of thy presence and thy smile !

How glad were we that thou hadst safel}' come,
Like some strong bird, whose wings with tempests toil,

Back to our sheltering nest, and wert at home.
Beyond the calms and tumults of the sea!

Ah ! how the years have dealt with us — with thee!

How fresh thy cheek was then, that the sharp wind

Swept over, and that felt the flying spray ! —
How dark thine eyes — thy hair! Alas! I find

Sorrow hath left her traces there ! — decay
Of hopes long cherished saddens o'er the mind : —

Thou, too, hast had thy joys that passed away.
My sire ! The splendors of thy fiowery May —
Thy natal month and mine — stay not behind

Their time, to deck our boughs with garlands gay!
Yet, ri(di in faith toward God, in gentleness
Toward man, be thou ! May Heaven's protection bless
And shield the brow whose locks are growing gray !

AC A D I E

" Home of the happy."

There's a music sweetest,
A son^j completest, —
We heard it sun^
Where life was young'.

"Our native land charms us witli inexpressible sweetness, and never
allows us to forget that we belong to it." — Ovid.

ill IIILE British binds tlie lyre awake.
y^^ And strike tlie iiarp to glory strung.
Do none mij country's praises speak? —

Must my fair land remain unsung?
Awake! to noblest minstrelsy.

Loved Muse! the patriot bosom stir!
And strike to passion, tiery-free.

My wild, unhonored harp, for her!

Yet, not unknown to song is she,
E'er since the Western Master came

To twine the flowers of poesy
Around her sweet unstoried name: —

Yet the enchanting story tell,

And paint Aft'ection's heavenly mien—

124

ACAD IE.

The mounifnl fnto of Gabriel,
The sorrow of Evangeline!'

But. O my birth-land! wilt thou not

Hring forth thy glowing minstrel choir —
Bright musters of enclianted thought,

And skilled to strike tliy native lyre?
Its slumbering chords too long lie dumb,

Since rural music's earlier j'eur :'
Come! ye enraptured songsters, come!

8ing! and the listening land shall hear!

Sweet, now, to tread her morning fields

VVliere once her dews ^nibatlied my feet,
And hear the song eacli thicket yields,

And drink each wild bloom's breathing sweet;
Or. when the tifle of evening light

O'erflows with gold the crimson'd West.
From liills. to watch the splendors bright.

With fern, and tiowering laurel drest.

Sweet, there, to liear the voice of Spring

Clear-vvarbled by tlie mellow thrush;
To hear the early bluebird sing.

And see tlie robin's bosom blush;
Through deep'ning grass, all sunlit, warm,

'I'o walk along the daisied plain ;
While Ceres reaches forth her aim

To clothe the fields with g(»l(len grain.

1. Longfellow's " £vang'eli»e*' was an early delight to me, and has en-
veloped the scenes of my boyhood in an atmosphere of perpetual romance.
If no sontfs are ever sung within her borders that shall have the fires of
genius and the gift of immortality in them, his idyl has made her classic, and
assured her the perpetuity of glory.

2. Nova Scotia had her early singers, with merit in their lays. There
was poor McPherson, the consumptive school-master, who, amid the rude
conditions of frontier and pioneer life, sung, and wrought, and languished.
Surely there is a plaintive sweetness, a warbang melody, in his lines that re-
mind us of tlie fiutings of Michael Bruce or John Logan.

AC AD IE.

125

Though hers be not the storied lore

To which eartli's prouder lands aspire.
Yet there are legends on her shore

That eonrt the bard's historic lyre :
Look forth. O stranger! — not in art,

In nature, is Acadia fair! —
And thou niay'st lind the purest heart.

The simplest mould of beauty there !

Tread where her vales are deep and sweet,

When lapt in Summer's hazy dreams.
Where wilt thou, pensive wanderer, meet

With gieener woods, or clearer streams?
Her wildwood nooks seclusion give

To him who seeks to muse, or rove,
And mazy, singing brooks, that live

In music, such as poets love.

The swallow's wing stoops swiftly down.

With burnish'd breast, to touch the wave
Of the still lake, that bears the frown

Of granite cliff, and mountain brave :
Her hill-slopes court the morning beams,

Hustling each mossy-vestured tree;
While mad with joy, her mountain streams

Go leaping downward to the sea!

How often, from a stranger shore.

The exile-spirit turns to view
In Memory's magic glass, once more.

The peaceful scenes that once she knew !-
For thou, Acadio, art my home —

Sacred to Boyhood's joyous mirth —
Where'er I rest, where'er I roam.

The most beloved land on earth !
16

ACADIE,

Laud of the Mayflower! could I deem

That thou wouldst yet reujeinber me.
What joy in every mushig dream,

And each aspirhij^ thought of thee !
But long self-exiled from thy shore.

Singing, apart, my idle songs.
How stiould I be remembered more?

What of thy praise to me belongs?

Yet shall I love thee, O my land !

Yet must I still remember thee!
And could my power such boon command.

The sons of honor thine should be :
Heroes upon thy soil siiould spring.

Sublime in war, and true in peace ;
Poets, the world should crown, to sing

Such songs as live till soug shall cease.

My native land ! My heart's first home !

The world holds not a chavui like thine!
They weave fond dreams who rove and roam.

And trace the Tiber and the Rhine :
But not beneath Italia's sky,

'Mid prospects beauteous, wild or grand.
Can fairer scenes delight the eye

Than grace mj' own, my native land.

Acadie ! sweet thj'^ name to me.

As music, trembling from afar,
And breathing o'er some moonlit sea,

'Twixt fire-tipt wave, and silver star :
Of other lands a sound I hear —

Names with a meaning half divine;
But none can ever fill my ear

With such a melting throb as thine.

ACADIE,

127

Still let thy rustic, untaught muse

Tune his wild harp from every spray,'
Mimic the notes the wild birds use,

Weaving a sweet and artless lay :
And though no grand applause l)e given —

Though Fame no laurel wreath aeeord,
The meaning song shall rise to Heaven,

And Love shall bring her own reward.

I. The simple Bard rou^^h at the rustic plough,

Learning his tuneful trade from every bdugli. — Bums.

ifiiflT

NIY RIvACE:.

TO MV UKOTllEH.

Nothing is more beautiful than that men and things should be in their
places.

I'F. in the royal kingdom of thy tliought,
T* (Where dwell the eminences and degrees,

And stately words, in brilliant embassies,
With rich attire move on ; to which are bronght
The wealth of realms where dark and dim are not;

From which the foul and indistinct depart;

And where the smiling genii of the heart
Draw fairy circles — haunt each secret spot —
And on Hope's hill-top, every gala-night.

Kindle tluMr sprightly beacons, twinkling high;)

I may have privilege, and friendly grace;
Then let it be where tire-lit walls are bright,
On Autumn eves; — a chirping cricket nigh,

While i)ensive Silence broods around the place.

THE RETROSPECT.

A Poem read at the Annual Meetinji; of the Acadia College Alumni, Wolf-
ville, Kings Co., Xova Scotia, Thursday, June 3, 1886.

IfJ OOL-SIIOD. eight swift elusive years
^^^ Have fled from time and me,
Since fell upon my eager ears
Thy benedicitie.

Bright as of old thy June day shines

On river, hill, and field ;
Sweet as of old thy trailing vines

Their fragrant incense yield.

Squat, sturdy Blomidon stands grey.

Clothed with the sun and mist.
As when our banners made a prey

His sea-veined amethyst.*

And Minas, when some Halcyon day
Greets her with cloudless eyes,

I. From the beautiful hill where, embowered with trees, stand the new
College buildings, you have a noble prospect. The green plain of Grand
I're is before you, and the whitey sheet of tlie liasin of Minas; while afar is
the ridge of the North Mountrun, terniinatin;^ where Blomidon sits witii his
feet in the sea. It was a resort of the students, cm pleasure days, who
sought geological specimens, and especially the much-prized ametliystine
stone mentioned above.

:a|

;i -ni nvt e 1* 5.

180

THE BETE08PECT.

'';l''!ll!lli''iii

Is fair as that famed Spezziaii Bay
Beneath Italian skies.*

Still, when her white sails flit like birds

Forth to the Western main,
Do dreaming eyes, from roots and surds,'

Peep through the window-pane.

And still, with ships that skim her tide.

Their pennons bright unfurled.
The thoughts of bold hearts downward glide.

The wild stream of the world.

Boys will grow sick of cloistered peace.

And life withojit life's passion.
In spite of Learning's (jolden fleece —

The gnrment most in fashion.

For books well-thumbed get lorn and flecked,
And blackboards blankly stare : —

'Tis chiefly in tl»e retrospect
Those hours seem so fair.

The chalice of the wine of youth

Still pours its living streams ;
And lo! we mind the olden truth,

And dream the early dreams.

God grant that when our hairs are gray,

When twilight blurs the page,
The music of our dawning day

May charm our lonely age !

1. Nothinij is more common with admirers of the scenery around the
Basin of Minus than a comparison of it with that of Italy,

2. Surds are quantities not exjjressible by rational numbers. I suppose
some roots the student got hold of were not found esculent.

eej-.

lllrisi^i

THE BETROdPEGT.

131

Eiglit years ! it seems not long ago —
Comrades who walked with me —

Since last we watched the Gaspereau
V\o\\ singing to the sea.

O pensive walks, when trees were full.

Under the harvest moon !
Long thoughts by river beautiful

As Burns' ''Bonnie DoonP''^

The orchards blossom white like foam,

The air with nectar tills;
Once more we laugh, and dream, and roam

In sunshine on the hills.

O rich in hope ! O brave in deed !

Those days are gonc^ forever ;
And yet, unchanged, the blooming mead

Smiles on its lisping river.

Pilgrims, Acadia, to thy shrine

We bring our sacrUice;
We snatch, beneath thy sheltering vine,

One hour of Paradise.

And happy, over hill and dome
We see the Spring-light shine.

As when, in days of hope at home.
We drank thy milk and wine.

And we are glad if tlitting hours.

That leave us old and worn.
Crown thy unwrinkled face with llovvers.

And sons: and charm of morn.

1. The Gaspereau Hows down, at first a wild tnouiitain-born stream, clear
:iiul hrii^ht; then a quiet river goinjf leisurely alonj^ the valley, half hidden in
tries, then reaching the Bay of Minas through the dykes and meadows of
the sea. Less roniuntic rivers have been the subject of poet's song.

'1'

182

THE RETBOSPECT.

Dumb, here, the world's too clamorous greed ;

The Muses haunt these groves;
Here pastoral Virgil tunes his reed,

And Horace sings his loves.

Here young hearts beat to Homer's line,

With fancy flashing free,
Jiike winds that laughed along the brine

Of his loud-sounding sea.

Here good ^]neas trims his sails,

And love-lorn Dido sighs ;
Here mild Antigone unveils

The light of holy eyes.

Ah. maiden faces, sweet, that glowed

Alike on saint and sinner.
Whene'er we took our walks abroad,

Or — went our way to dinner !

Where are you now? — Remember you
Old days, old loves and quarrels?

Time crowns om- poor bald pates with rue.
And school boys wear the laurels !

Here young Prometheus conquers hate.

Quells the Olympian rod,
And teaches Trrth is lord of Fate,

And Love is lord of God.

Here Plato spurns the sense-bound clod. —

Eyes rapt in stainless light.
Enchanted by the Voice of God,—

But dies without the sight.

Here O^dip'is, by fate abhorred,
Hails death, and wins release;

THE BETROSPECT.

183

And. roscuod from th' Avongor's sword,
Orestes whispers, *' I'eace!"'

O long may Jones these pnre tones blend,

Clumting his elassie nme.
AVitli Grecian trnth and grace to lend.

Heaven keep his voice in tnnel

Kind teachers! Since we've slipped yonr yoke —

()i this we may advise you —
The more we know of teaching folk,

The njore we come to prize you.

If once onr young Omnis<'ience stalked.

With lordl}' strut and fuss,
The tussle of the world lias knocked

That nonsense out of us!

Here, too, through many a splendid maze,

IJolls Tiber to the sea,
Wlieie iKMisive scholais stand and gaze

On ['I'ufts^j of history.

Here sits the Sphinx.' who once of yore

The 'J'hebans thonght was dead :
How many a prize-man sophomore

This X + V has bled !

•I"

I. "Peace! Peace! Orestes like I breathe tliis jjraver! "

—LongJellov.<, ''Hymn to the Night."

2. The Professor in the department n.tineil.

},. Frank Iliy^yins, Professor of Mathematics. He sliouhl be known in
order to a full ajijireciation of the stan/as applyini^ to him. The author
writes: "1 don't know as you see the point in the spliynx business, but
those who know F. II. will understand."' 'S'ls, I know him! He is inatlie-
niatics incarnate. Had liuclid or Lei>endre never lived, he would serve
tor a whole school of tiiein. Matlu'inatics were written in his long^,
straight, black locks, and in all the angularities of his face.

184

THE RETROSPECT.

And grim, by Mercy yet uiisliriven,

His riddlo yo must read :
But in tlie Senior Year. tlianl\ lieaven !

Tlie Spliinx will go to seed.

The Sphinx is lilve O'Slianter's witch,

Aboon the Brig o' Ayi-;'
The Senior is a rnmiing ditch,

Which Sphinxes do not dare.^

Kind Genius of tlie inclined plane.
Our thanks you well deserve ! —

We've travelled many a rougher lane
rhan your Cycloidal Curve.

You ];. r' '.! us on the white right line.

ViK.(\^ '/.('ittlf-s to conclusion: —
We can't bt;;ic.'e twice four is nine,

In spite of faith's collusion.

We've since been asked to mould our brick

Without the straw of leason ;
Consistency's a heretic,

And logic is high-treason.

Sure, if to horior fact and sense.

And Pagod idols spurn.
Should land us all in Tophet, whence

There is no more return. —

With sceptred chalk, and blackboard great,
We'll find '• Old Mathematics,"

1. The author seems to have iynoreil, for coiiveiiieiiee of rhyme, the ' brig'
over which clattered Meg's hoofs, to the risk of poor O'Shanter.

2. In the Senior Year there is no mathematics.

THE BETBOSPECT.

135

By merit raised, the rpprobiite
To tutor in Piiemnatics !

Who teaches Metapliysi<!s now —
The ".stuff" of all our thotight?

Our Doctor' of the serious brow? —
We love him, as we ou<j;ht.

O. brothers ! thro' how many lands
We've souglit the Holy Grail I

Lo ! here is truth I Lo ! there she stands I—
Bow down, and cry. " All hail!"

Still she looks on us. far withdrawn,
With stars and clouds bi'(li«2^ht;

The vision of our hpirit's dawn,
The watch-tire of our night.

Trust thy soul's hij^hest vision — trust !

Think not to toiich or taste :
Time's ancient mystery— poor dust I —

For tluic, will not make liaste.'^

The noble still innxt seek the li<^ht ;

The Doctrinaire still raves;
But Faith holds fast, while the long night

8iiines o'er our fathers' graves.

You that for years this cosmic rind
Have trod, or sailed its water.

Tray tell ns whether matter's mind.
Or whether mind is matter V

1. Dr. Sawyer, Principal of Acadia Collctic

2. " The secret of heaven is kept from ayi- to a^^e. No imprudent, no socia-
ble anj^el, ever dropped an early syllal)le to answer the l(ini;in^s of saints,
the fears of mortals." — Emerson oh " Srwdenhor^, or the Atystic.''''

136

THE RETROSPECT.

And can we know what wo can know,
And know what know we can't? —

Yon that can answer, answer slow —
To follow's qnite a janut.

The latest answer I can tind,

In all this learned clatter,
Isjnst: '*why, matter — that is mind,

And mindV — why, that is matter!'

Thro' days of slow and painfnl flight

We've songht in prose and son«;.
What makes the "" riglitness" of the rij^ht,

And lli(! " wron<;n(!ss'' of tin; wrong.

Before friend Wayland'^ raised his face

To giv«^ an tixphuiation.
Friend \\ ayland piisseil where sight takes place

Of I'atiocination.

Shoidd the last Senior Class illume

This immemorial squabble.
They'll sav«! tlio wise an endless fume

Of learned toil and trouble.

lias Coldwell' found the fossil spore. ^
Which made the tirst man-monkey

On some Pleistoceniaii^ shore

Stretch upward towards the flunkey V"

1. The author writes in a letter: "The dojjfg-erel about matter and mind
and ethics niij^lit be fuiuiy to one wlio was well-read in the discussions of
nictaphvsies and ethics of these times; but to the averag^e reader it would
mean nothing at all."

2. Francis Waylaiul, late president of Brown University, a Baptist Divine,
author oi "JC/e»iifi/s <>/ Alo/d/ Scictuf," etc.

3. One of the Acadian alumni.

4. J la? If he has, we may put that new article into our crceil,

5. The jjeological term descriptive of the dejjosits of the newest division of
the tertiary formation.

6. Putting the obsequious simpleton for the lowest form of manhood.

THE RETROSPECT.

ace

lul iniiul
lsii)ns ot
|t woulil

Divine,

/isioii <it

Or when the shive of bestial wars

Before his soul stood awed,
First felt the jjflory of the stars,

And sang a hynui to God?

Who'll care when we have reached the goal

Of manhood how we've all come?
If God is God, and soul is soul,

Let dust be dust, and welcome!

If we are born of baser forms.

We care not /toio, but vhyf — '
Whether we travel to the worms.

Or city in the sky?

We'll ask if Uight is throned above,

Since in man's heart 'tis writ?
Whether the Soul of all is Love

And Duty — infinite V''

We'll aim to keep a pure, true heart, —

In Honor's cause be brave;
And dare to (jhoose the '"better part"

For Jtoth sides of tin; grave.

Truth conies in holy, earnest strife ;•*
The Hamlets dieam and «lie : — **

1. Ah, the important question! — to wliat end? rather than, From what
bf^inning?

2. "God is love," " Thy will he done." "The Son of God came not to
be ministered unto, but to minister,"

i. Do his will — know the doctrine.

4. " native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of tliouiiht."

— j/iimlet. Act j, S, t.

lit

r'4

188

THE UETMOSrECr.

VVliat boots uii Obcnnaiiirs' sick life,
An Amur's weary cvy't"^

'Tis holy. oariK'st living wills

Nliall will to Iloaveii at loii«^tli : — '

Lift your oyos upward to the Jlills
Whence coincth all your strength I

8uch lessons did thy stainless page,
illustrious (lauip!^ inspire: —

O earnest hearts I () grey heads sage!
His soul burns in your lire*.

He said

Love (Jod. and do the right;

Truth wins, and lives for aye:"
Walk in tlu' light, and trust the light,
As children of the day."

When curious douI)t assails oiu* need

Of simple faith and prayer,
His wholesome, hopeful, manly creed

Shall save us from tlespair.

When, •• Fear not, love not?" Stoics cry:
'• The strong take not, but give;"

His quick, love-needing sympath}^
Shall teach us how to live.

1. See Matthew Arnold's poem of " Oherntann." It is the voice of despair
over tlie alleg'ed death of nkl faitlis — the inouniful complaint, "A believing
heart is jjone from me."

2. "O tliat I knew where I mifjiit find Him I" " Wiio by searching [p'''-
losophical researcli] can find out Ood?" Hear Amiel's confession: " Tlie
vulture of regret is ji;nawinjjc on my heart, and tlie sense ni irreparable loss
chokes me like the iron collar of the ])illory. 1 have failed in the task of life,
and now life itself is failintj me."

Amiel's Life and Letters have just been translated from the French. Hi'
was a scholar who thouLfht and thoui^lit away faith and action,

3. No moral certainty can be <^reater than this : First, faith, then action—
energ'y — endeavor, must be the true life of man.

4. Dr. Cramp was for many years President at Acadia; but during tlie
years of my brother's collegiate life he was an emeritus.

THE liETIiOSPECr.

189

If his (loiul lips roiild sponk. thoyM say

What his wiiolc life assures: —
'•Our tlit'orics may \n«'I1 tlocay,

If wliat we do (>ll(llll'«'S.*'

Forget iK»r. miiistrci. Ciawloy's naino,'
Midst iiaincs of iiol)l('st wortli :

Here livt's as tine a <>('iitl('inaM
As ever wallied tlic cartli.

Tliou livost still, kind heart I— in need
Tlie student's friend lon^-while;

Thou art an Israelite, indeetl.
In wlioin tliere is no «^uile."^

On thy rieli speeeli the seliolar liunj?;

(jiod's li<^lit was in tliy face;;
Tliou^ht turned to nujsic on tliy tongue,

And truth was clothed with grace.

Th}' memory distils like naid

In every student's hreast: —
Truth-lover, seeker, scholar-bard,

In honor take thj'^ rest.

Kind friends I together we've strayed round
This pedagogic fold ;

I. Dr. Crawley was reverend and staUly in form, and of a princely spirit.
Ik' was one of those men to whom Clarendon's c'hararteri/,atir)n of Selden
will well apply : — "A person wlu)m no character can Hatter, or transmit in
any expressions e<iual to his merit and virtue." He was ailorned in every
chainher of liis minil with |)icturis and jewels, and his thmiyhts clianned afl
liearers. No man there was more beloved ; there was one voice, and that did
witness :

" A kinder j^entlenian tri ads not the eartli."

— Shaks. Mtrc/iaiit of J'l nice, Act 2, S, S.

-'. Jesus saw Nathaniel comintj- to him, and saith of him : " iJehold an
Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile." — yohn 1:47.

i f^,

140

THE liETIiOSPECT.

;3l.

'Tis HWfiot to hear your voWm's moiukI
Fiiinilliir tis of old.

VVIdo-scjittcrM ar«» the l)im(ls wliloli stood

nt'iicath tln! old i-oof-tn'(S
Yet clasji w(» hands in InotlH'rnood,

O'er mount, and stream, and sea.'

'J'oo old w(''v<» j^i-own for Damon's n«w, — '

The youthful lov«' wv cherish;
While hearts are younj;. and skies are hlue,

Old friiMidships must not perish.

I'd ^jive up. If I had the choice,

All Cicero's l>i<f prattle.
To hear old Douijlas Simpscurs voico''

IJoar down th(» wordy hattlc.

I'd ^ive. I'm sur(\ most willingly,

The host of my old seruions.
If I my Archil)ald might se(\^

Safe from those hloody Buruuins.

O days I O hearts! when, with a shout.
Charles and his Cavaliers*

I. "Their graves are severed far and wide,
By inount, and stream, and sea."

— Alfs. Ilemnns: '^Graves of a Household."

3. Referrinjj to the friendship of the classic Damon and Pythias.

3. "Douglas Simpson was a jollv fellow in the class above me at Acadi:i—
u Scotcliman, from I'rince Edward's Island — full of jjood humor and fellow-
shij), and a ready debater, — always found in the midst of the lo^:oinachy.
He is now a Baptist preaciier in this country."

4. "About Archibald. He was my room-mate, and class-mate at Acadiii
Collejjfe. He is now a missionary amon^; tlie Karens — 1 think; sent tluic
by the Foreij4n Missionary Board of tli»' Maritime Provinces."

5. Charles 1, of iingland.

Lii

THE HETIiOSPECT.

141

Wo clmrjrcd. and (jiilckly put to rout

With (Icmocratlc spear

Poor Charles I Ilow many ('oll('<ro courts

Have stretched ifoii on then* racks I
Boy I'yius and ( roinwells. with their warts,

IIav«! doomed you to the axe

Tlielr kiss is on C'ohuuhia's l)row —

'Die (^ueeidy \'ir<|;lii free,
Tlironed wliere Nor'-western wlieat-liclds l)Ow

'I'o ^re<'t tlie Western sea.

SouK^ in tli<> East Cainidian iaiuls

Ambitious fortunes pusli ;
And some liave saiieti to Soutliein strands,

And some towards Ilindu-Koosh :

VV'liere winding Avon,' faii St. .lolm.

By town and meadow dally;
Where trills Annapolis alon*?

His apple-scented valley.

And some by IJliine^ enchanted tide

^^ restlc in noble t()il ;
With Teuton and with Celt divide

Time's hon(Mabl(^ spoil.'

1. "I ain a rojruc if I were not at hall'-swonl witli a dozen of tlu'in two
luiiirs to^'ftlier. I have I'scaped hy miracle. .. , I never tiealt better since I
was a man."- S/ui/cs., Kitti^" Htury I \\ ist part. Act 2, .V, 4.

2. School-boy rhetoric has passed into a proverb.

},. The Avon was the river of our home. From the hill-side we looked
down upon its estuary. Its Indian name is I'i/.iquid. Some sweet sound-
ing; verses, embracinjf aborij'-inal names of Acadia, mention it thus : —

"The memory of the Red Man — it lingers like a spell,
On manv a storm-swept headland, in many a leafy dell.
Where Tusket's thousand islets like emrralds stud the deep,
Where RUjmidon, i". sentry u'rim. his endless watch doth keep:
It dwells round Catalone's blue lake, 'mid leafy forests hid —
Hound fair Discouse, and the rushinjif tides f)f the turbid Pi/.iquid."

4. Referring' to students who went to (Jerinan universities.

T*. '■

148

THE RETROSPECT.

Wo call yo'ir names, your yoar. your class;

Y"ot niccL we lioic no nioro;
Or meet like slii|)s that hail and pass.

Each to a stranger shore.

Hail, and faiewell I friends all, where'er

Yoin* various footsteps tend!
We lift, with sinii)le hearts, the prayer, —

•'God keep us to the end!"'

And yon, who first beyond the veil,

Weary with toil did flee.
From tliese dim shores we bid you hail,

Across the silent sea !

We count you blessed with the sight

Of truths we cannot prove : —
Kapt eyes! unlllmed. in the clear light

Of the P:ternal Love !

Your heavenly vision fails our mind ;

We sigh, and cannot siuTj;
Blown on before the woild's loud wind,

Like birds with wearied wing.

And many a shattered bark floats bare.

O'er these waste waters wide,
Where faith, o'erburdened with despair,

Has fallen down and died.

Heaven willed that you your wings should spread,

Fl}' hence, and be at rest.
While we the living midst the dead

Pursue with endless quest.

Yet is Thy Name. O Lord, our guard!

Thou dost each frail heart keep :
Above our night Thy stars keep ward;

Beneath — Thy angel. Sleep.

ill

QASl^KKKAU.

Lustre and ji^racu
\Vas o'er tlic place,
The fairest, tlu- scrciicst cverinorc.

"Then he heheld, in a dream, onre more the home of his childhriod;

Green Acatlian meadows, witli sylvan rivers anionii;- them.

Village, anil mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

As in the days of lier youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,

Vanished the vision away." — Evangeline.

I ¥ I ITII (IrcMins tliat haunt tlio oveiiing Mrc.
^^^ While fields without lie stark and chill,
A'<.d frantic winds the drifts whirl higher,
That buttet doors and windows, still; —
With songs, like meadowy bice/es. borne

From places whore youn<; hearts were free —
No loiif^er lonidy or forlorn —
My native land. I come to theel

Is there a place wheic all are blest,

And where the ba('! f<)r<?(>t to come.
'Tis where our Heart's alVections rest —

Our natal spot, our early home:

^HB

P''

fe...

fcj-

w''

iT'v

fKm^-

¥'*' >

HSr

«pH

I. Some of the stanz-as of this piece were written in Cambridge, Mass., in

1S70.

OASPEBEA U.

How dear the household song and smile ! —
Ah, dearer, left so far behhid! —

The cheerful evening-rest from toil,

When every face seemed bright and kiud!

My home! my weary mind's sweet rest!

Spot by the silver-shining sea! —
How hope beats gladly in my breast

While now my thoughts return to thee!
1 hail thy purple shore, when even

Dusks o'er the blue and bounding main;
For gentlest winds, of Fancy given.

Will waft me back to thee again: —

Back to the scenes, the friends, I knew,

In that sweet season of delight
When skies put on a holier hue.

And suns arise with gladder light; —
Back to the grove that crowned the hill,

Where Music dwelt the livelong day;
To mingled brede of Uower and rill.

And birds, of many a tuneful lay.

Sweet spot ! where Fancy tirst awoke

And touched, with hand divinely bold, —
Transforming all. by nnigic stroke,

My infant eyes did first behold !
Ah, in that glow, what joy was mine,

'Neath morn, or midnight's splendid sky!
Heaven was a temple, earth, a shrine,

And wind and wave were melody.

Spot, where I framed my earliest lays.
And breathed them on thine autumn gales,-

My feet are longing for thy braes.
And solitude re(iulres thy vales !

GA8PEREA U.

146

How memory doth each scene restore
On wliich mine eyes did earliest look,

And bids me climb thy hills once more,
And gather pebbles from thy brook !

Again 1 traverse hill and heath,

1 tread familiar solitudes.
And wander, rapt in dreams, beneath

The glory of the autumn woods;
Alone, by brook and river-side,

1 linger out the sultry ray.
Then "neath the sheltering roof abide

Where 1 was blest in childhood's day.

Ye haunted shores! Ye charmed glades!

Y'^e silvery lakes, and skies so blue.
Where lived and loved the Indian maids.

And warriors of the dusky hue! —
Where Micmac' hunter chased the deer

That 'neath your hoary branches tlevv;
Or paddled o'er the glittering mere,

At sunset hour, his birch canoe!

My playground green ! where Fancy sees

Amid the gloam a peopled shade! —
The lirelight flickering on the trees,

The lodge in leafy covert made ! —
Thy bowers are twined and reaie(J anew,

Where many a warbler Hits and sings,
Where Evening comes, with fall of dew.

And heaveidy healing on her wings.

1. Or Mikinak. Tlic Miknuiks arc a hi-aiich of the Altfoiuiuiii fainilv >)f
North American IiuUaiis, itiliabitini; a portion of Lower Canada, New IJruns-
wiik, and Nova Seotia. Tlie Miiinacs and Malicites are the priiuipal triliis
ill N. S., and of them there are about i\i^. They ari' an inonen.--ive, simple
peojjle, to a hirjj'e extent semi-civilized and ehristianizeil, with a literature,
and legendary repertory of their own.

1 M

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146

QA8PEREAU.

Again a summer hour I spend.

Throned on our grassy sunset hill,*
And see the golden orb descend.

While balmy earth and air are still:
O lov'd resort ! once ours, when free

We held the hours to rest or rove —
The hours most sweet to memory,

The scenes most sacred unto love.

Pleasant to sit, and look below, —

O'er twilight pastures, stretching bare.
O'er dark'ning woods — upon the glow

Of sunset, on the Basin fair,*
To Bloniidon,^ witli silken veil

Of sea-fog brooding o'er his form,
Where oft tlie slow, incautious sail.

Meets the swift angel of the storm ; — ■•

The isles, in purple or in l)lue.
That crouch along the further shore ;^

And the red bar,** disclosed to view
By the retiring tide, once more;

1. The hill back of my father's lioiisc, coniinanding' a wide, varied and
truly beautiful prospect,

2. Minas Basin.

3. Cape " Blow-me-down," — as the sailors term it, in allusion to the sud-
den winds that strike from its summit, — is a landmark made famous in the
poem of Longfellow :

" Away to the northward,
Blomidon rose, and the forest old."

4. The gusty flaw from the summit of Blomidon sometimes has sur-
prised smaller craft becalmed in the neighborhood. Acadia College lamenls
a catastrophe of the kiiul, in which a professor and a number of students, wiio
had gone to visit the headland, were ilrowned.

5. The Five Islands near Parrsboro shore, Cumberland Co.

6. The "Flat Iron," as it is sometimes called, a great muddy bank near
the entrance of the Avon, submerged at higii water.

GA8PEREA U.

147

The silvery sails that come and go

Upon the placid ialand sea;*
The banks where Avon's waters tlow.

The sheltering? coves of Chevarie : — *

'J'heii just below, the wheat nnsliorn.

The snjooth-niown tiehl, the larches tall,
And the lov'd (;ot where I was born.

With dusky roof and whiten'd wall; —
The neighboring homesteads, the wild vines

That clamber o'er the open dooi*;
The orchard trees, the sond)re jdnes.

The blufts that overlook the shore.

I watch the Avon sweep along

Beneath a tranqiiil summer sky.
Cheer'd by each chanting wai'bler's song,

Blent with its own wild lullaby;
Or hear it. when the nortii wind raves.

And bellowing tides of winter roar.
Dash the hoarse music of its waves

Along its dark, resounding shore.

Where Avon's waters onward flow

Oft have I passed the sununer day.
Rapt-listning, 'mid the sunset glow.

To one sweet minstrel's moving lay ;
As from the hill 1 maiked her cot.

While iiastening to th" enchanted shore, —
'•Lo! there she lives. "^ I fondly thought.

Whom winds and waves have taught their lore : —

1. " Pk'iisantly rose next tnorn the sun on tlie vilhiije of Graiul-1're,

Pleasantly k1<-''""^'<^' •" '^'i^' "^"ft, sweet air tlie liasiii of Miiias.
Where the ships, with their waveriii^^ shadows, were riding- at anchor."

— Longfellozv: '^^ Evangeline, ^^ Part i, S. iv.

2. A place in Hants Co., across the estuary of the Avon. Its two points
of land make out into the Basin.

,V Irene S. Elder.

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148

GASPEliEAU.

'•■"ris thore the tmioful cliantress lives.

And vvak(!S with soii^ t\w. veniiil groves,
And lier sweet tlioiight luirinonious gives

In service to tlie iiarp she loves I
Still may her gentle heart inspire —

While answering birds the iiotes prolong —
With love the quick, ob^jdient lyre.

With thought refined, th' poetic song.

Thus, days that were come back again! —

Thy scenes their wonted jo}-? renew;
My heart is touched witli pleasing pain.

As still they lighten on my view; —
Thy niurnrring haunts of lab'ring bees,

Thy bowery river's distant glow,
Thy quiet walks *mid orchard trees,

O happy, happy Gasi)ereau !

Low in the shelter of the dale

The river's circling silver flows,
And plats of verdant intervale

Have hedges of the wilding rose :
Embowered in elms, my fancy sees

The roof-tree of the farmhouse old ;
And, peep'd from leafy apple-trees.

Bright spheres of red. and green, and gold.

I hear the farm-boy's whistled tune

As slow he walks behind his team ;
1 see the kine, at sultry noon.

Stand in the willow-shaded stream ;
And lingering, with fond delay.

While evening comes, serenely still,
Watch the retiring flame of day.

Through pines that plume the western hill.'

1. About midway between Brookliii and Wallbrook, nestled in the pictur-

GA8PEREA U.

148

The air with wild-flower scent is sweet;

Antl, wliere yon crystal waters glide,
The blue- flags and the sedge repeat

Their image in the still}' tide :
The willowy bridges — ehn-trees tall,

The dripping mill-wheel, turning slow,
The wliite church-spire — I see them all,'

O happy, happy Gasperean !

O sweet Acadian vale I with thee

My earlier, happier years were passed ! — '''
The days of blest security.

The peaceful hours, too bright to last. —
When on thy hills I sang in joy.

And traced thy brook and river's flow :
Hast tliou forgot tliy minstrel-boy,

() much-loved vale of Gaspereau?

Oft ^lemory on tlu; track rctin'us,
IJy which my life the earliest came;

t'sciue part <if the valley, is tlif 'rrcnliolin farm, to which I used to come. It
has passed into strantier hands since, l>iit then it was the lionie of a sturdy
man whom all respected. The place was so surrounded by hills anil trees,
that the shadous fell early: it was so secluded and cpdet, that 1 used to com-
l)are ittothe " I [appy \'alley," of Uasselas. How often have 1 dreamed my
dream there, and watched the sun ti-oheliind the " western hill " from which the
trees have been shorn I How have I lain awake at nijrht, listeninjj to the
rustle of leaves, and the sound of the brook that ran almost at the door. And
that brook! ah, when shall I follow up such another!

I. These are at the village, farther up the valley.

1. I had some leisure for the iiululticnce of my roving aiul dreaming pro-
pensities. Health, as well as poetic illusions, were pursued bv the brook-sides,
and along this delightful river. Weeks that were spent at tlie Trenholm and
Anderson farms, and at the farmsteads of Avon|)ort, are among the best re-
membered f)f my life When shall I forget the moonlit evenings, between
the Anderson farm anil Cias])ereau village.'' When, the beech-nutting in the
autumn afternoons? 1 can see vet the netted cherry-trees, where the noisy
robins contended for the bright, juicv sjioil ; and the ladder that tempted my
feet to climb among the laden boughs I I can see the meadow, rich in grass
and grain; and the river-course, marked by the thick-clustering trees, that
give but glimpses of its waters here and there.

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U(i.4

ISO

GA8PEBEA U.

And F.'incy many a sconp discorns,
And lists to many a magic name :

Tiien do thy woods and streams appear.
With patlis my wandering feet did know,

And all thy musie meets my ear.
O winding vale of Gaspereau !

How oft, from yon hill's dark'ning brow*

Where twiuklos first the evening star,
I've watehed the village windows glow

At sundown in thf vale afar;
Or. from the shadowy bridge leaned o'er

The river's glinjmering darks below. '^ —
Breathed freshness of the sylvan shore.

And heard the songs of long ago I

'Twas here, of old. a people dwelt,^

Wliose loves and woes the Poet sings ;''
The beauty of thes«; scenes they felt.

When, 'mid the golden evenings.
They set the willows, lush and green;

Now gnarled in their fantastic age.
Thfit, with their blacken'd. broken mien,

Still stand — the blackbird's hermitage.

Secluded in this calm retreat.
They tilled the soil, and reared the home;

1. One of the hills, from which a view of the valley can he had, which
divides the villajre of Gaspereau from that of Wolfville. Oft, from my scat
jinder a clump of willows, I have watclied the fadinjr of the " lij^'hts ol eve,"
and followed with my eye the course of the river down the valley.

2. At the village, just below the mill, the river divides into tw<) streams
that )5^o on in shallow sprawlinjj currents around a little willowy island. Two
bridjjes cross these branches of the river, almost embowered by the trees that
stof)p over them. The spot is very picturesque, and I loved to linger here,
especially at even in j^.

3. The French Acadians.

4. Vide Longfellow's " Evangeline.''''

GASPEREA U.

151

Nor dre.'iniod to an abode so sweet
The lordly spoiler e'er could eoine :

For them the corn, green-waving, grew,
Studded with many a yellowing gem;

Round them the doves and swallows flew.
And coo'd and twitter'd love tor them.

But now I hear from wood and dell

Kinging, the Saxon's sturdier strain —
From VVallbrook, and from Blackburn fell.

And over Grand-Pre's storied plain;'
Where once, to sweeten silence, rose

The lyric notes the}' loved to hear.
At traiuiuil evening's golden close.

Or when the morn was shining clear.

Woe fell on you, ye genial race —
Ye exiled sons of lily France !

This is no more your dwelling place, —
Ye live in music and romance :

But oft. as purple eventide

liathes all these hills in lire and dew,

I. The Grand-Pre | Graiid-l'c-raV) <>r prairie; ])r(>n()iiiiced by the country folk
"(jraii'peroe,"] is a lar^e dyke meadow, comprising some i loo acres, and lies
helweeii Lower llorton and Long Island, 'i'liis rich dyke was redeemed
from the sea by the Frencii Acadians. Longfellow alludes to it :

"V'ast meadows stretched to tiie eastward,
Giving the village its name, anil i)asliire to flocks uitiiout number.
Dikes, tliat the hand of tlie farmer had raised with labor incessant.
Shut out the turbulent titles; but at stateil seasons the tlood-gates
Opened, anil welcometi tlie sea to wander at will o'er tlie meadows.
West and south there werelieliis of (lax, and orchards, and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er tiie plain."

Land is owned not only by farmers in tiie immediate locality, but by those
who live eiglit or ten miles distant. Alter the upland haying was done, 1 can
rciuember how the men of our village would bring Iiome their liigh-built
loads from the (irand-Pre. Later in the season the green phiin woukl be
dotted with cattle and horses, ])ut there to crop the fall feed. On the morn-
ing after the breaking of the dykes, in a heavy October gale, 1 remember to
have seen them standing in forlorn groujison mounds of the shattered dykes,
or wherever they could tind place out of the water.

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152

OASPEREAU.

yome wjuuleror by the liverside
SliuU drop u tour, and dreum of you.

The vale still rings with childliood's song,

Amid its yellowing sea of llowers,
Willie days of sunnn(;r glide along,

On wings of light, thro' all your bowers:
Here are the trees' ye planted, here

The remnants of y<mr broken homes;
But to old graves, from year to year,

No gliostly mourner ever comes.

But see ! my lire burns low ; ujy room

VVitli lliekcring beams has grown less bright;
And loudly, through the snowy gloom,

1 hear the storm-wind's sounding flight;
Yet doth my In^art a strain repeat,

Of thee, my lov'd. \\\y eaily home! —
"To make remembered sorrow sweet.

And lighten every'eare to eome !""^

1. The mossy stumps of trees that, in their leafy prime, may have witnessed
such scenes as the poet has recorded : —

"Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the fuxliard,

Bendinji^ with j^olden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.

There in tlie sliade of the porcii were tlie ])riest and the notary seated;

There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith,

!Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,

Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.

Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow -white

Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly iace of the fiddler

Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are lilown from their embers.

Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle.

Tons les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dtitikerqiie,

And anon with his wooden shoes bi'at time to the music.

Merrily, merrily whirled the wiieels of the dizzving dances

Under the orchard trees and down the path to the meadows ;

Old folk and young together, and chilciren mingled among them."

— Evangeline, Part i, Sec. iv.

Until recently, remnants of the Acadian orchards were discoverable at
Grand-Pre. Old cellars may yet be pointed outliere and there, and some old
relic will be occasionally turned up by the plough.

2. John McPherson. ^^ Pleadings for Return."

0A8PEBEA U.

108

Fade froir. my thoii^lils, sweet vale ! again

Let lue dissolve the pleasing spell:
But all, the ettbit is in vain I —

With thee my tenderest thought must dwell!
Yet, in such tranquil ujemories blest,

Stilled be eaeh voice of vain desire;
Enough, these days of toll aiul rest.

Enough, tlie poet's earnest lire!

I will not say the word, " Farewell,"

Nor call my musing thought from thee;
For 'mid thy bowers some hearts may dwell

That have not yet forgotten me:
Each wind that sweeps tlK! rongh'nlng sea —

That Hies tlie way I wish to go —
Wafts my fond fancy swift to thee,

O lovely vale of (Jaspereau !

<^>^

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W'"'

AN INTERLUDE.

1*2 M1NSTR?:L pausing, lit the day's bright closing,
^■^ Where Jirt and music hud arrayed their trophies,
Laid down his pen. and sought the western window,
Bright'ning his face in the sun's parting glory;
Till, turning from that home of twilight si)l«-'ndor.
He hailed the coming of a stately woman,
Whose name was like a strain of household music,
Whose form was loveliness, whose face was sweetness, -
Who was the mistress of the minstrel's dwelling.

O bride, in bygone days! — O wif<', and mother! —
O babe, that circled by white arm. now smilest!
For you the well-strung harp resounds, and ever
Your coming stirs in him the soul of music;
To you he turns, with lighted face, sweet beaming!
For you I hear your happy niinstrid singing!

welcome is the moment
When, iiew-releasecl from care,

1 watch the low-descelKlin^^ sun
That ^oldens all the air!

O hapiiy is the evening',

If dark or bright it be,
That sees the hours of labor close,

And brings my love to me J

AN INTERLUDE.

155

Come mar, my «)\vn, my (tarlinjf !

That I tliy faci- may si'i-,
And tiiim' my sotur-Miiti'il thmijjlit

Willi thy smili- nl' sun^liinc tVi'i- :
To nil' tlmn'rt fair as llic dau iiiiivCi

And s\\ i'»t as tlir swi-i't (U'W-lall ;
Tliou art Ifal and tnii' to tliv cIkisch few,

TIkhi art frank and kind to all.

I mind mr well, my darling I

VVIrmi liivf tirst brratlicd tliv name,
Till' Mnsli, than sprtch mori' cl<>(|uL'nt,

'That in livini^ answer came :
'Twas a path ohsem-e and Inwiy

'I'hou knewest mine must tie;
Hut I l>Uss kind heaven, whose love hath >;iveii

Oni- lot to thee and me !

'Tis a dreaniv life, my darling'!

That thou fiast eoine t'> share :
Do the dee|)s aiul dells of l-'airylaiid

Seem for thee too taint and rare?
Vet, with all of iieaven-lxirn music.

And of whitest poesie,
Life's crowning- bliss my heart mi^'ht hums

If it were not for thee !

Alul whose aro thofjc. whose mii-tli siispeii(]s the iiitisic?

I liear your shouts. I see your bi fi^ht eyes spaikU;,

O liappy ehildreii I from tht; tmf fresh iKxmtlhi;:^

Into that shrhjc whose ^odtUvss is a mother;

O f(iarh;ss ehihh'en ! awed not from your ehimor,,

Pause ye before that guardian aiigel — motlier!

O dimpling daughter! foldetj rose, tliat liangest

Upon her arm. wlio is ti rose white-blooming!

O boy exuberant, warm, in joy abounding,

C'lu'bing thy leaping glee, thy mirthfid clamor, —

For you I h;;ar your happy minstrel singing!

And who are these, my darliiijj!

That round thee closely clin^-.
As round some pearlv-crested rose

The beauty butls of Spritij- ?
Our hearts leap hiyli with rapture

As our babe lea]>s in his joy;
And a pure delujlit is our lassie bri^-lit.

And our lauj^nter-lovin^^ boy!

I- 1

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156

AN INTERLUDE.

So, beautiful, my diirlinj^!

Our lowly life's (k-cliiiu;
And softly, round our partiujj^ hour,

The lights of evening shine :
One life, with faith unbroken,

One love, from falsehood free ;
And, by God's ijrace, in a holier place,

One Heaven for thee and me.

Tlnshcd was the song, the qinv(M-in<? chord?, vvere silent;

The sunset skies were llusliin<^ now but fauitly,

The evening star jxcpM at tlieni through tiie window, —

Time, now, of nested bii'ds and eradled cliildren;

But still they lingered, as a spell had bound them,

Still sat thc^y. in a lit of gentle musing,

Silent — but with their eyes they bless'd each other:

No words express tlieir comfort in each other,,

No fond endearments, and no vv:irm caresses

Avail to make their mutual compact firmer; —

Their blissfid troth, their union is eternal:

Their eyes alone bespeak their hearts' thanksgiving

For perfect joy. for certain trust and treasuie,

Which — marred below — beyond all fearful passion.

And failing rapture, is enjoyed foraver.

3/Loods and Tautasies.

ADUMA.

There Iiath passed a fjlory from the earth — Wordsworth.

ll"T of my ear a song has died.
And from my sight a glory tied ;
There is a gulf, unknown and wide,
Between tlie living and the dead ;
And bird and leaf
Partake my grief,
And share my constant sorrow;
The brook eomplains
In plaintive strains.
And from my heart the passing wind doth dying
sweetness borrow.

Yet not forever hushed the song.
Nor silent she who used to sing;

For Fancy pours the strain along,
And Memory knits the broken string;
20

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158

ADUMA.

And moon and star
Bright boacoiis an^
Upon that isl(^ of dieaiuiii<^.
Where i behohl
Tlie matcliless mould —
The perfect beauty that she wore — her face with
ghiduess beaniing.

She grow so meek, and pale, aud pure,
I feared that she might find lier way
Through the elysian atmosphere.
Up to eternal summer day;
So wheu we strayed,
By field or glade,
TJke idle fauns a-roaming.
Her hand 1 grasped.
And tiglitly clasped.
And thought the zephyr-rustled leaves were shadowy
angels coming!

They bore her up tlie shining way —
I heard the echo of their singing —
Above tiie trees — the shadows gray —
Their arms about hei- closely clinging; —
Tip by the stream
Of the moonbeam.
Through glittering gates of even.
'I'hree shapes of air
Did her upbear.
And over hills of cloudy light did carry her to heavci.I

The shelvy bank, the flowery brae.

Are vacant, now that she has gone ;
And the bright, beauty-breathing day,

Without her life, comes moving on :

ADUMA.

159

The whirriiij;: scythe,
With motion blithe,
Is heard 'inoii^ fulling •grasses;
And every breeze
That smites the trees,
Brinijs iiioiirnt'iil music of her voice unto me as

it passes.

}'.

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>i 9

A KANTASY.

|>^RONE oil a mossy hank in laii<^nor lying,

**■ 'iVlid the suii-beatoii i)()rcli o" the afternoon,
List'ning a faniish'd rillet's lessenhig tnn<!,
And the chirk, jach'cl fir-tree's faintest sighing; —

To lialf-closed eyes some wandering beams came prying,
And i)eered throngii hraneiu^s — streamed tiieirgold across
Drowsed brain and stilly eyelids, with the lloss
Of locks ilhmn'nate; — when savv I Hying

Swift wings, like (inivering seraphim, (juiek plying
Under a triple ar<'h of rainbows — end
Of a long bridge of light; and finest hints
Of song — a tiny .eriai mnsli- — dying.

And rising yet again, they secnu'd to send, —
While close beside me rose the Fairy Prince I

XALKINQ BY THE SEA.

I t I E wjilked down to the imirinurous sea one night-

^^ 1, and a l)rotliei' nuich bt'lov(Hl. 'Twas in

The earliest blusli of tlie autumnal moon,

Xow risen to light our footsteps on. Ftdl oft,

Aforetime, had we paced that pebbliHl beac^h

"Neath the same full-orb"d moon; and list'ning there

To the strange ceaseless music ot the waves,

Were wont to give a sym[)athetic piny

To our fidl souls, discoursing, now and then.

Of life — this brief and litful interlude

Of the Eternal lieing; of passionat(^ love —

Inexorable hate — that minister

Tlieir motion to the progress of tlie world, —

Striking with powerful liands tlie wondrous soul

Into deep harmonies, anil discords wild.

Which jar the universe.

And, building, oftentimes,

Fair castles of young hope— pictures that gleamed

About the calm horizon of our life.

In goigeous setting — so we drank deep draughts

Of life's exhilarating cui), and oped

Our hearts to the full tide of Nature's song.

And Poesy's.

li'i

162

TALKING BY THE SEA.

There vvjis a ciive near by
The water's edge, whose sides and low-hung roof
Of yielding slati^stone, bore the freqnent marks
Of boyish impress; — snatches of old songs,
And words of half-remembered melodies,
And favorit<' aphorisms of authors eonned
In the hnsh'd early morning-tide that sleeps
In the dim background of all noble lives.
And brooded o'er by holiest memories.
We took our seats upon an ancient stone.
And looked onue more upon the moonlit waves.

At length I broke the silence :

•' Vou recall
The last time we w(M'e here — ten years ago —
One cool .Sepr(»inl)er eve. The harvest moon
In her full glory, swept the gloomy sides
Of this old cav(^ with amber streams of light.
And on the molten mirror of the sea
Left- lines of tremulous splendor.

•• And we saw
Move on across this bright'ning track tin? ships,
■>\ hite-vving'd, and disappear like ghosts beyond.
I saw your soul traiistiguied in yoiu" face.
Deep-luminous, and like the sparkling sea
Reflecting stars. Then I repeated low
The liaureate's sweet fragment — •• Break, break, break'.'
And so you took your peucil and com|)osed
One of your own. ('ould you recite it now.
As then you wrote itV"

Thinking a brief space,
e who meets again
A long lost child, and welcomes it with joy.

He gave the lines like one who meets again

TALKING BY THE SEA.

Waves opaline of life's unsluinbering sea,

In yrantl i)crpetual roll I —
Murinurin>>:ly moan your many voices —
The nuisie of the sonl : —

A deep, sad undertone of human hearts,

With fitful strains of fears,
And wildly-elashin^ discords — voices sweepinjif

Forth out of our j)ast years.

But there are islands shrined in holy peace,

And hreathintr swietest halm ;
And rocky caverns, echoing, or liusheil silent

In an eternal calm.

The winds above the seas that rave and roar,

Seek not the depths below ;
Those isles no tidal wave of passion vexes,

With sohbinLf ebb and flow.

Waves opaline of life's unslumberin^ sea,

In ji^'rand perjietual roll! —
Softly fall, to-niiiht, your sweet-toned voices —

The music of my soul !

168

■f'l-

"Driftwood.*' lio said; "-oiicc moiv liath Memory's waves

Stranded thee on tli(^ island of my tlioni^litl

Brother, we all aie poets in onr yonth.

Of high or low degrci' : bnt I have lived

So niueh in deed and deep exp(;rience

Since then, that all my sphcics of high ideal

That once rang music in their daily march,

Are faded into globes of (•onimon clay.

My Memnon statue now no more gives sound,

Struck by the first rays of the risen sun ;

And I have heard so loud the thunderous eartli

Shake, stricken in her orbit, that my ears

Are deafen'd to the nnisic of the stars,

That 1 once heard in dreams, * * ♦ *

1 !

mil

ON LAKE WaNNKF'ISAUKEE:.

t ~

T MISSED and tloatod on tlie Lake

y Called the Great Spirit's Smile,

Lingering l)y many a grassy shore,

And many a wave-washed isle.

Charmed on its shining bosom lay

Floating some tlowery stars, —
Love, Hope, and Innocence, all writ

In holj'^ characters.

Deep, green below tlie limpid wave,

Their slendei* stalks I traced;
But soft airs kissed their beauteous blooms,

And golden beams embraced.

And, midway down the watery way,

Embathed in crystal light.
An upward-reaching stalk appeared.

With opening bud. in sight.

Fair lake! and dear delightful flowers!

Ye silver swells that roll!
Ye bear a meaning to my mind,

A message to mj'^ soul.

ON LAKE WINNEPISA UKEE.

165

VVhut hopes there are, th.at in the <leeps
Of stru^<5ling spirits grow ! —

'J'o their fiiltllhneiit they outreach
From shadowy pools below.

But while we pray, and while we strive,
Tliey grow, and grow tlu^ more;

And yet shall open into bloom
Life's shining waters o'er.

Ah ! now the forming bud we see —

The purpose incomplete;
And feel that, for the ripem'ng time,

We wish the hours more fleet.

But in the Master's perfect time

The perfect good shall be,
All radiant as tliese virgin stars

On this sweet iidand gca.

I" I
I

,^^^-^-

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ii';:

THK HI 1^1..'

" Tliou reineniberest
In those old diiys."

— MOKTE D'AUTHUH.

CAME to tlie hill at moriiiii«?.
Ere the sun was in the sky ;
The light wind Ivissed nie on the cheek.

As it went Hitting by;
Tlie grass was emerald 'neath my feet;

Tlie East was a ruddy thnne ;
And the brown hare tied, as a phantom fleet.
Across uiy path, as I came

I came to the hill at morning,
J stood and looked below.

I, The buriiil-yiird in my native viUajre was a retired place — a nook quiet
and secluded, somewhat removeil from the public way. It was

" A ^;entle Jiili,
Green, and of mild declivity,"

terminating' abruptly in a slate-pit, oti one side; beyond which a brook purled
along its bed of gravel. Skirting the edge of this descent, which formed the
eastern boundary of the yanl, were soinc^ fine beech ami maple trees, inter-
mingled with evergreens, against the dark of which the " mournful marbles"
were seen distinctly from tlu' road. When there last, I foimd the place
much clogged with undergrowth, and the rambling i)icket fence broken, in
places. It was a frecjuent resort, on summer Sabbath afternoons of mv hoy-
hood. My brother and I often went there. It is much neglected of l;ite,

" A favorite btnmdary to our lengthened walks
This churchyard was."

" Something ails it now; the spot is cursed."

THE HILL.

167

And siiw tlu' silver-wiiuliiig strciain

Aloiifj tlio valley flow;
I fuw tlio villa>;<' windows lir«»

With flames of the iiiddy sun.
Throii<;h a <>'old(!n future, coining nigher.

And a yrlorions life; begnn I

ITHUK.

nooH

So upon the hill, that niornin

1 watched the dayspring gleam.
And list<'ned to the singing birds.

And tlie mminur of the streanj;
The sa[>i)hii"(^ sky smiliid overhead;

The very graves looked gay;'
And who would dream of sorrow and shade

At the early dawn of day V

Alas ! if the heart grows bitter.

When it flnds its dreams are vain.
When its prophecies are shown to be

Hut fruits of an idle brain I —
Alas! wIkmi i\w light shall fadeaway.

And the cherished hope shall die, —
When the gold of the (thjud has changed to grey

In the overhanging sky I

1 came to the hill at morning.

When th(? yellow leaves were there;
The frosts had (\y^(\ th(; beechen sluule.

And the maples rustled bare :
Old hope< were }>arted, then, and gone,

With the last year's faded flowers;
And the colors all that n>y thoughts put on

Were as autumn's sober bt)wers.

'■ ■. (

i">\\

I. "The very graves appeur'd to smile,
So fresh they rose in sluidowM swells."

Tknnvson : — " 2Vie Letters."

y'S

THE HILL.

But, upon the hill, that inorniiig,

I thought. 111 lllillllKM' of IIKUl,

'^Tlic Sim shone hii^htly ycstcM'duy,

And tJH' sun will shine ji^iiin; —
The viinislied gleam shall hieak. ore long,

From the gates of the misty Past;
And tli« pliantoms, sweet, of Fancy and Song

Will he with me, at the last."

I stood on the liill at evening,

When tlie hreath of heaven was keen;
Tlie moon liiiiig in the hollow sl<y.

And not a (doiid was seen;
And the snow lay ghostly on the firs

That, as winds of night would hlovv,
Nodded their dark tops to tlie stars,

And tlie dead that lay below.

But the dreams had tlown forever —

The dreams that were onee my own !
My heart was disinchanted then,

And the real lived alone ;
The future looked not as it did

In the light of tlie morning-tlame.
For the path beneath my feet tlien led

To work, and not to fame.

The olden gathers round me.

With its dim, familiar look;
It comes like the wind that rustles through

The alders by the brook ;
And the moon shines on the white hillside,

And the spring morns brealc the same;
But the boy comes not in his hope and pride,

'Mid tlie light of tlie morning flame.

THE MAIDKN KVK.

|IIE nijii(l(Mi-Kve is a bride to-nij?lit.
And lier brow is bound with a circlet bright,
And her robe of blue, in ev<ny fold,
Is sprinkled and starred with dust of gold.

And I at the holy altar stand.
And hold, sweet Marj', thy lily-white hand;
Fair is thy face, and thine eye is bright,
And thou, meek maid, art a bride to-night!

if,

II I 'I

I jip!'!'''!!"^

HEAI^TS.

Ml'l thero wlio coldly love? —
Who, without wiinnth or toars.
Through homeless reulius of fancy move.

Changed with the chaii^ii)<^ years? —
Souls without strength or constancy?
O send them not to dwell with me !

.<i'

Are there wlio cannot weep —

Of proud and icy eye —
Whose softer feelings ever sleep,

Whose deep heart-cells are dry? —
Who darkly look, and ne'er can bo
Or unconstraiiied, or fancy free?
Then send not such to dwell with me.

Are there, whose souls can melt —
Dissolve in tears aud sighs ;

Whose tendern(!ss is always felt.
Whose friendship never dies;

Whose love is like yon starrj' flame.'

'i'hat ever burns and burns the same?

O let such greet me — sjx-ak my name !

I. [/rsa Major.

' <*!

HEARTS.

171

Send me the soul tliat flies

To greet its kindred sliade; —
Tlie liist'rous deeps of Juliet's eyes,

'Neatli silken I.islies laid I
G'v«! me the bliss that brims to woe.
The t(\irs and smiles that overtlovv; —
Such sun-bright spirits bid me know !

Give me — but ah. in vain I

Where is the star-souled one.
Whose voice with music's softest strain

Will woo and load me on? —
Like stars of heaven o'er glisuMiing seas.
Such hearts as never fail to please.
Or cease to charm — canst briny: me these?

. 1

lifi

r F

ARROWS.

Far up,
I sec. when; late my boy's swift arrow tlew.
A star's first twinkle throiif^h the stainless blue;
Scarce has the sun gone down, but, faint and fair,
Its welcome ray proclaims its i)reseiice there;
And I^ exnltin<ij in my boy's dclij^ht.
While gazing upward, see the cheering sight.

Far up.
The arrow of devotion tak(;s its flight.
And. starlike, kindles, while as yet 'tis light;
Dazzled mine eye may Ix'. or dim witli tears.
Yet in His place my heart's own Star appears;
And I, exidting. or with calm delight,
Find, as night darkens, that it beams more bright.

AMBITION.

WERE we all wo dream of hoiiio^,
J Wreathen with our ideal bloom,
What glories, far beyond our seeing,
Would not enkindled pride assume !

But to Ambition 'tis not given
Safely on proudest heights to dwell : —

Once from the summer-lands of Heaven
The fairest of archangels fell.

Blest he who comes, through action noble.

A nobler heart and hope t' attain;
But thou, O sighing soul I tiiy trouble

Hath made thee heir of bootless pain I

Pain hath been thy stern adviser,
The yoke hath made thee fume and fret;

And though the rod hath nvidc thee wiser,
Thj' stripes are red and burning yet.

O idle dreaming and desiring I

How oft the world's acclaim hatli hailed
VoH and hero jusi expiring.

Nor hath their broken heart availed.
98

■■•■ 1 ,

174

AMBITION.

When soiled tlu^ lustre of the spirit,
VV' hen diinnied the brightness of the eye,

These,, oft, the world's awards to Merit —
To toil, to suffer, and to die.

Had we the fullness of our craving,
Our restless fate would urge us higher:

Then shall we find our bliss in having,
More than in unfulfllled desire?

Better, perchance, to dream of beauty,
Better to sigh, and sing of fame;

For Fancy weaves a spell more mighty
Than lingers round the grandest name.

lii iil

ivA

SO N a.

Q GLEAM broke out of a roseate sky,
From the feet of an angel coining to Heaven's door;
And the sonnd of a song came floating by,

Mingled with chords of a golden harp she bore.

A path led down to the pnrple shore

Of cloudland, laved by a sea of shining flame;

And singing, singing from heaven's door,
Downward to aie this music-angel came.

m. • I

CjpV'M'i '^

a BLINDED iin^^ftl siii<;iii^' In the dark,
Witli wildest, sweetest music; a lost sphere
Swinging apart in its lone atniosj)here.
As on its shoreless sea tloated the ark ;
A bird, of rich but nielaneholy tone,

hendin«? through twilight-woods its plaintive wail,
While Echo niocketh from luu* rocky throne,

Telling from hill to hill her idle tale : —
O, listless Poet! thy enchanted mind
Was the abode of iieauty ! There arose
Such shapes as throng the gates of sunset skies !
Yet some fair pearls of price thou didst not lind, —
A heart at rest, a spirit in repose.
That humble faith which makes the simple wise.

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^•i(

MAY

lOVV boauteous was thy early youth,
That knew not of declino.
When innocence and lovelhiess

Made thee a holy shrine !
Fresh to thy couch the wakening Spring

Brought dreams of llower and tree;
And Love, the tenderest blossom, gave
Its open heart to me.

O, once I saw tlie new-rimmed moon

Hung o'er tlie hill-top low,
While in their azure fields began

Eve's golden flowers to blow !
How rich the thick-leaved, mossy trees,

And the sweet turf beneath ! —
I seemed to draw celestial air

With each enraptured bjcath !
But. ah, most blissful I thou wert there,

With calm, uplifted eyes.
That lent new beauty to the flowers.

New lustre to the skies I

But, O how beautiful wert thou,
When, bridal-white, from home^

178

MAY.

■ff

H It r

1 1"

Along tho aisle, with flowery trai;i

I saw thee smiling come !
Again adown tiie vanlted nave

The breathing organ swells;
And all my spirit answers to

The pealing of the bells.

And lovely wert thou, when a year

Had almost passed away ;
Yet thou didst grow so meek and pale,

My fading lily — May!
From garden-walks thy step was gone —

'J'he garden, once thy pride;
And tile sweet nmsic of thy voice

In mournful silence died;
Thine eye with stranger lustre shone,

While fainter grew thy breath;
And on thy cheek the wan rose came,

That onl}^ blooms in death.

And thou wast beautiful when thou

Wert lying mute and chill,
Unmoved by all my bitter grief —

So white — so calmly still!
There, yet, the wreathing of a smile

Dwelt round thy marbled lips —
A sunbeam of the parted soul,

'J'hat death could not eclipse:
1 could not, while I saw thee, feel,

With all my weight of pain,
That the dear lips I loved to kiss

Would never speak again.

My faded flower of love — my May !
Where art thou, darling, where?

IHfy

MAY.

17»

I gaze into this starlit sl<y.

And (loom thiit thou art thoro; —
For, in tli(! kindly hour of youth,

I found tiieeovor truo;
Thy pcacoful presence on my heart,

Fell soft as evening dew;
And while I toil and weep alone,

How hard my lot would be.
Did I not hope in yon bright world

'lo meet again with thee !

pi'

wo KDS WORTH,

■':3

9
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In Rememhranck ok iiis Si hmmk Odk.

ORDSWORTII! the tender rapture of thy song.

Hath toiiclied lonjj^-shimberinj;: chords of jjrief and joy ;
Hath poured a consecrating light along

Those days when I. too. roamed a passionate boy.
Courting the mountain winds, the stars on high,
Living in sensuous dreamy fantasy, —
And felt the power of river, grove, and sea,
With all that gives delight to ear or eye.
What though thy full experience is confined

To spirits fineh'-toned. who can aspire
Above faint types to tlie Eternal Mind?

Enough ! my soul hath caught thy lofty fire.
And drawn deep lessons from those years that lie
Asleep in dreams and visions of Immortality !

!h! 13

h !

CONTErvI RI^ATION.

III

«{

I consider Tliy heavens, tlie work of Thy finfjers, the moon and the stars
which Thou hast ordained. — Psalm vii,: j.

-nd joy ;
)oy,

|ITE liills tlieir awful summits show.
Far \\\^ tlio blue soroiio.
Clad ill eternal cloud and snow,

Or mantling robe of o^reen ;
And llowers are planted at their feet,

And stars above their heads,
Where, after noontide's fervent heat,
Tlie evening enrtain spreads.

O, Thou ! who in Thy secret place

Dwelt, ere these scenes begun,
'Twas at Thy word of power and grace

These mighty deeds were done I
The shining spaces I survey —

Of old Thy wond'rous plan —
And marvel iit the m:ij(>sty

'i'hat yet will stoop to man I

Thou, from the reach of mortal sight.
Hast set Thy throiic on high ;
23

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182

CONTEMPLA TION.

Hast flushed tlie earth with roseate light,

And lit the crystal sky.
Thine is this eve's pnrpiireal shade,

The morning's joyous frame,
Where glows, in glorious lines portray 'd.

The splendor of Thy name.

In Thine abyss of central light

There can no shadow be ;
The past as nothing in Thy sight,

The future hid in Thee :
Eternal youth is Thine ; no tears

Bedim Thy bright abode ;
Thou art, from everlasting j'^ears

To everlasting— God !

Prophets and bards, inspiring Mind,

Their raptures draw from Thee ;
Thy works an open page they find.

Of marvelous mystery ;
They gather hopes and thoughts sublime

From fields of earth and skies.
And from the mean concerns of time

They teach our hearts to rise.

Ethereal beauty, throned in light ! —

Theme of eternal praise !
Refine the dull, the sensuous sight,

Th.at now Thy work surveys;
Bid heavenly truth from all things break.

Ally n»y thought with Thine,
And teach this trembling string to wake,

In harmony divine.

A SPRINQ SONQ.

a JOYOUS rhyme of a grladsome time
That agiiiii is coming to greet tlie earth,
When Winter shall spring on his cold white wing,
And Light and Beanty renew their birth ! —

When the swelling buds break forth, and the woods
With song brim over, and streams run clear ;

When the sweet-toned rills are heard from the hills,
And the cheery singing of birds is here !

A song of the flowers that shall be ours

When the balmy south wind breathes the Spring, —
Of the violets rare, and the snowdrops fair.

And the swallows returning on glancing wing!

The time of love, when the piny grove
Grows warm in its murm'ring dark-green deep ;

And sweet Arbute, at the maple's root,
On the floor of the forest begins to creep ! —

When the night is gone, and the rosy dawn,
Gives rising splendor o'er half the earth ;

And the wild flowers peep from their mossy sleep,
On the downy couch of their spring-time birth ! —

/
5

} H

184

A SPRING SONG.

i
11

When each grassy plot has many a spot

Of the daiidelior's transient gold;
And a genial fire wakes each greening spire,

And pierces each seed in the qiiick'ning mould !-

When the sun mounts high in the kindling sky,
And the earth rolls warm in her bath of beams,

Till the lush green cover is spread all over
The plain and valley, made rich with streams !

Then let us sing of the hastening Spring! —
Behold, she cometh to greet the earth ! —

The frost and snow to their ice-lands go,
And Light and Beauty renew their birth !

THE PROLOQUE IN HEAVEN.

From Faust.
[The Lord and the Heavenly Host. Three Archangels enter.]

RAPHAEL.

HE sun on high makes ancient emulous music
Amid his rival spheres,
Fulfilling, with his constant step of thunder.

His circle thro' the years ;
Tho' fathomless, the mighty angels strengthen

With gazing on his ray :
The world's unwithered countenance doth brigliten,
As on Creation's day.

OABRIEL.

Swift inconceivably, with rapid lightness

Spins the adorned earth ;
The clear elysian day-spring alternating

With midnight's blackest birth ;
Broad foams the sea, tossed out from its dark places^

Upon the rocks, in spray ;
While all things, whirl'd in an eternal motion,

Move on their awful way.

til

186

THE PBOLOOUE IN HEAVEN.

"nl

MICHAEL.

From sea to land the tempests wage commotion,

And roar from land to sea,
Belting the earth, in rage of emulation,

With power perpetually :
A flashing desolation flameth onward

Along the thunder's way : —
But we, O Lord, revere the gentle changes

Of Thy diviner day !

CHORUS OF THE THREE.

Tho' fathomless, the mighty angels strengthen

With gazing on Thy ray :
The world's unwithered countenance hatli brightness.

As at Creation's day.

IN SOLEMN VISION.*

A Reverie on the Hill.

•f • STOOD on the hill at evening,
y When the day was nearly done.
And the gloaming shades were falling

On the track of the sunken sun :
Twas the old familiar churchyard.

With its dark pines tossing high.
With its shady nook, and pleasant brook

That below ran murm'ring by.

From the heaven's hidden glory

Had dropped Spring's rarest green.
And the velvet turf beneath me

Seemed bathed in mystic sheen ;
The marble shaft and stone uprose,

Deep-oloquent of woe.
Of dead-march sung, and sad hearts wrung,

For the dead that slept below.

And I thought of one** then lying
Where never a mourner's tread

''■'■

I. In clear dream and solemn vision.

— Milton. Comus.

2. A brother of the author, lost at sea.

If pr

1 1 A

188

IN SOLEMN VISION.

Could come, nor wild rose blossom

Above the sleeper's head;
Where the marching winds in chorus

Wailed dirge for a mother's joy;
And the syren wave sad requiem gave

For her ill-fated boy.

But his sleep in the heart of ocean

Is sweet — and all is well !
Though no funeral train attended,

Nor tears at his burial fell,
God brooded o'er his dying.

And made him a royal tomb.
Where the clioiring stars, in golden bars.

Hang anthems througli the gloom.

Alas ! for the Spring-time's power

O'er withered leaves and sere.
While no sweet Spring recalleth

An unreturning year!
Alas ! that Love should labor.

And Nature strive in vain
To re-illume with their radiant bloom

Our winter of death again !

Upon the hill at evening

I saw a sovereign die.
And clouds of fiery crimson

Hung round his western sky;
The couch of the dying monarch

Was spread with cloth of gold;
And a fire-pierced sln-oud of glorious cloud

Across his broad disc rolled.

Then I dreamed that the passing spirit
As bright a setting knew,

IN SOLEMN VISION.

189

While along Death's darkling pathway

With chainless wing it flew;
That a cloud of God-like glory

Trailed o'er its perilous way,
While the seraphim and the cherubim

Were guides to a sunless day.

Then my weary heart grew lighter,

And I said, "These fornjs shall rise.
As the new-born sun up-bursteth

Above the orient skies ;
When the wintry storms are over,

Shall the vernal zephyrs blow.
And the life-tree bloom, and joy find room.

In that land to which they go."

1 stood on the hill at evening. —

My heart too sad for tears.
As I mused o'er the grave of my early.

My lightly-liiden years;
And so wan and bare was my present.

In the gray and sober light.
That life no more looked as before.

Magnificently bright.

"'O <lays, that have departed.

Since we went hand in hand
Along in these shady footpaths,

A happy youthful band !
These vanished — Oh ! where are they?

Speak, ye eternal years !
Answer, thou deep, where brave hearts sleep

Answer!" — I called, in tears.

"But well He doeth all tilings;
Amen, so let it be!'*
24

100

IN SOLEMN VISION

Then through my soul came pealing

A Sabbath liarmony :
I gazed far down the future.

Through the region of hope and faith.
Till I saw the morn when, by God upborne,

I should break the bands of death.

The baleful star. Ambition,

Shot downward into gloom ;
And I saw the glare of a furnace

From many a laurel'd tomb ;
And the final flame reached the bird of Fame,

As he soared above his pyre ;
And the glory of earth and its boasted worth

Passed away amidst the fire !

Then, amid the graves low kneeling,

I breathed a prayer to heaven.
That the deathless love of Jesus

Might to my soul be given ; —
That the Morning Star eternal

Might forevermore be mine ;
And that in His sight with a quenchless light,

My soul might glow and shine.

KEATS.

A Reminiscence of his " Ode to the Nightingale."

POET! who roainest in a fuirylanU,
Too rich and passionate for tliis sober earth,
Ttiou surely liast some talisnianic wand.

Or Genius of a more tiian mortal birth,
Who steers thy bark o'er strange enclianted seas.

To islands fairer than Hesperldes ;
Where thy grand eyes do, wond'ringly, behold
A touch transmuting e'en the rocks to gold.
There thro' voluptuous skies, and bloomy shades.

An unimaginable glory falls,
When the pale moon gleams thro' the silver'd glades,

And star-born halos till their verdurous halls ;
And mystic music trembles to and fro,
From one lone Nightingale that chanted soft and low.

i|ti

V I

A N a E Iv s .

t —

"T N the chill nutiunii iii^ht, when lone winds grieve,
T* [ musinj^ sat, where on my cottage wall
The flicliering shadows of the Hre-light fall—
Shnttles tliat Fancy's silver web doth weave:
Lonely and worn, 1 thonyjht npon the dearth
Of heavenly influence ; for our dull earth
No longer may her plumy guests receive
From regions where divinest things have birth.

Wandering in dream, I saw the uew-ris'n Eve,
Prime of all human beauty — human worth,
Sitting upon a flower-besprinliled mound
Of Paradise; and felt the charm, the grace,
The pure content that harmonized her face.
She moved not, but a tranquil rapture found
In gazing upward, rapt with wondrous view
Of gold-wing'd angels softly breaking through.
Or melting in the deep of evening blue —
Fleet couriers, messaged from a world afar —
And on the brow of each a lucent star !

'• Strange!" thought I, wonderhig at the things I saw.
Like him at Bethel, waking, filled with awe

ANGELS.

198

Of his great vision : '' Surely, I l)Phokl
The angels tarrying with us af) of old !**

And though the flrelit embers had not died,

They made not the sweet face my chair beside,

The form of light — and fair as Eden's bride —

Watching each sparkle with her quiet smile.

''Dear fireside angel, who dost go and come,

Like light and music through the halls of home! —

And are there angels with us yet?" I cried ;

*' And come they still, who came to earth erewhile?"

" There are," she said ; "though oft the world seem cold,

And life 8««em disenchanted with dull cares.

The heavenly ministry cometh as of ohl —

We wake to tind our angels unawares."

/^"

AWAKKNINO.

Ij WAKE ! my year, awake !
^■^Now, while the snowdrops break
Through their green sheaths ;
And singing birds come back,
While over all their track
The soft wind breathes :
Come ! vital source of being, come !

Thou child of Are, and meekest soal ! —
My heart is cold, my lips are dumb,
And wintry clouds above me roll.

My winter hath been long,
Uncheered by blessed song.

And holy smile ;
The dimly-lighted morn,
Frost-shadow'd, I have borne
A weary while :
Now from my East, O, morning break !

Enchant the earth with beams and flowers !
O, morning of the heart, awake
The singing birds, the slumb'ring powers !

Come ! joy of all my years, —
That gives me sweeter tears

A WAKENING.

195

And tenderer grace ;
Bringing me, in thy flight.
For love and for delight,
A little space ; —
Engage with fresh, inspiring toil.

With noble aim and high pursuit ;
The quickening seed within the soil
Longs for the perfect flower and fruit.

HIGH AND LOW.

(HINK not that 'raid the stars alone
The reahn of eontemphition lies;
For thoughts of (iod. like seeds. are sown
In every rteld whence flowers arise, —
And even earth is ni'ighbor of the skies.

The rock, the rose, its truth imparts.
The farthest orb can nothing more ;

And wisdom conies to lowly hearts.
That search, and wonder, and adore.
Full oftener when they stoop than when tlioy
soar.'

Calm 'mid the hills — where silence dwells,
Or brook and bird make mirth and song.

And brooding pines' sweet murmur svvells,
The spirit groweth wise and strong, —
And hearts are soonest soothed that suffer wroiiu:.

Then witli a fond and reverent eye.
Like him. of England's vernal prime

1. Methinks
Wisdom is ofttimes neuter when we stoop
Than when we soar.— Excursion. B. III.

HIGH AND LOW.

197

hen thoy

kr wrons;.

And matin song,' let nie espy
The summer mead ; or Hst the rhj'^me
Of a loved minstrel of our later time."

Or, let me go with him who saw
''The common weal with boundless love;"^

And feel no iron links of law
Draw round my life, in field and grove,
While all in endless freedom with me move.

There let me learn a richer lore
Than pundit's volume can disclose;

Or feel in sympathy, once more.

With Nature's '■'•meanest flower that l>lows,"' —
Seeing where Beauty lies asleep within the rose.

There let me yearn toward Heaven in prayer —
In weakness strong, in meekness bold;

There let me draw reviving air.
And walk in Fancy's ''realm of gold."
Where eyes fade not. and never hearts grow cold.

Then, with a vigor newly born.
Back to my dailj' tasks I'll turn,

And, with a face as fresh as morn.
And love that dares not slight nor spurn,
rU bid each fellow-face to shine, each heart to
burn.

And all 1 learn, of high or low.
Shall not be closed within my breast;

Forth as a stream my thoughts shall flow,
And each experience be confessed,
That in the gift we may be doubly blest.

1. Chaucer.

2. Wordsworth.
.'{. Burns.

-: <\

1 =

■ » ■ i

A MAY-SONQ.

From Ciiaicek.

MAY-TIME ! Merry month. I hail thee here.

Thou tlowery «;ate\vjiy of the blooming year I

For thee the groves with (hmciiig green are (light,
And ring with birds from early morn till night;
While on their glancing wings the soft hours tly
Till Phoebus' car glides down its amber sky.

O Maytime! merry month of beams and showers,
Whose easy pencil streaks and frecks the flowers.
Hold still thy sway; for when thy reign is o'er.
Th" ascending sun's dominion comes once more;
And on the plains his fervid brow shall beat.
Till all the groves grow faint with feverish heat.

May no untimely frost, no blight o'ertake
The tender, pearly blossoms thou dost Avake ;
Nor beast, with venomed tooth, come near to crop
The beauties nestling in thy llowery lap;
Bu^ may thy nymphs direct my steps aright,
y greenest leaves may grow, and tlowers most

pearl}' white.

THE VIOIvET.

'm'\

From Goethe.

the meadow wot with dew,
[n its sweet loneliness a violet j^rew.
Hidden the weeds ainon<^:
VVitli careless step, at break of day.
A rosy shepherdess that way
Came on.

Across tht i-adow-path.
And cheerily she snnjj.

•• Would that I." the violet sighed,
*• Were statelier born — sonic i;arden\s (lueenly pride
And not so sli»jht a tlower!
That I might gathered be, and pressed
To yield my fragrance to her breast ;
Ah, me I

That 1 might there abide
For but one little hour !"

Op, with singing, came the lass.
Crushing the unseen violet in the grass :
Bruised, it said : *'How sweet!" —
"How sweet," with elfin moan and sigh,
It breathed, "for her alone to die,
Unseen,

A joy unknown.
At her beloved feet!"

■™'^:

t'i'

I 'a

1 <ii '■

[! :i

A ROUNDY CHEER FOR

KARMKR.

THE

IMPKOMPTU.

O! IIo! let US olioer liinil — the liale and tho tanned I—
With the brave of his heart, and tlie brawn of his hand.
The inerry brown Fanner is kin^ in the land, —
The Farmer forever ! Tlurrali I

Ho! Ho! lie can smile at the pains o' the great;
He maketh his fortune, and mendeth his fate.
And keeps a calm hand on tlie tiller of State, —
The Farmer forever ! Hurrah!

He waves his wand over the mould o' the plain,
He calls on the sun. and he calls on the rain.
And they leap up to life in the beautiful grain, —
The Farmer forever! Hurrah!

Let him sit. in life's evening, and dream at his ease,
'Neath the lush leafy boughs of his blossomy trees.
Till children's grandchildren climb up on his knees, —
The Farmer forever! Hurrah!

Ho! ho! for true heart, and for rough, read}' liand.
The promi)t to obey, and the Hrm to command;
The merry brown Farmer is king in the land. —
The Farmer forever ! Hurrah !

RYDAT^rvlERK.

|()\V sweetly solemn — as the .ejibbath bell
SoundihiT iii.ild the hiisli of sheltered vales,
Or iDiisie borne on winji^ of snnnner gales —

Is his undying song who loved to dwell

Beside thy placid bosom, Hydalmere!

Here, calm like thee, his peaceful days were spent,

'Mid scenes alike to him and Nature dear,
'^In the deep sabbath of blest self eoutent.'"'

The bubbling runnels, and the purling rills,
That draw their sighing nuninurs from the hills.
The woods, and glens, and niountains filled his dreams;
His verse an echo is of birds and streams:
Where'er 'mid his beloved trees he went,
Souje fancied sylvan spirit wandered near.''

I. Coleridge.

i. See Wordsworth's poem, called Nutting.

■Xr.

\ i

If?

\ -}-

aOD IN NATURE.

Be mute who will, who can,
Yet I will praise Thee with impassion'd voice;
My lips that may forget Thee in the crowd,
Cannot forget Thee here where Thou hast built
For Thy own glory in the wilderness.

— Wordsworth.

GOD! this world of Thine is fair,
When to tlie Sonl it sjieiil^s of Thee;
When beams of glory light the air,
And hues of beauty paint the lea.

For when Thy hand, Undying Love !

T.akes from our hearts the thorny sin,
O then, where'er we blissful move.

We drink Thy living Spirit in !

With rapture tilled, our hearts we yield
To praiseful Heaven's divine employ;

We swell the song of wood and field,
And emulate sweet Nature's joy.

Fresh from his lowly home of love.
The skylark hails Thee with the day ;

The lonely night-bird in the grove
Sings in Thine ear her plaintive lay.

',; ^TJit^a;. ...

GOD IN NATURE.

203

Then when tl>e vornal oliolrs ainonji;

The dimly-slmnbcrliijj woods awake.
All answer to their inorniiij; soiijjj

Doth from my swellliiji; bosom break.

'I'he rose, embatlied in early (lew.

Breatlies incense from its mossy shrine;
And (,'very tlower, of every hue.

Doth worsliip Thee, tlion Sonl Divine!

And wliere tiie moon, tltrougli cliist'ring trees,
Looks on tlie bosom of the stream,

My spirit drinks tlie balmy peaee —
Tiie gladness of a summer dream.

The heart's wild passions sink to rest,

And tears of rapture fill the eye;,
When evening dons h(;r sober vest.

Or bright adorns her western sky.

Or, when the nightly Queen has set.

O'er all the won Trous areh I see
The starry torches Thou hast lit,

To guide my wandering thoughts to Tliee.

'Mid scenes of peaceful beauty led,
'V\\y kindly thoughts i love to trace;

Nor will I shun the wouders dread
Of Th}' most secret hiding place.

Yon dusk and tlamy piles reveal

Thy pomp! — we deem Tliee speaking nigh ;
Awed b}^ the sounding thunder-peal

That booms along the midnighl sky.

God of the soul, of star, and sun,
''God of the swallow, and the bee !"

i I

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204

QOD IN NATURE.

Can man Ix'hohl what Thou hast <1ono.
And not adoit; and worship Thee?

The hh)oni that leaves the fading year.

If Thon remain, we may fore«]fo —
If Thou art ours hi Autumn sere.

And 'mid tlie wintry waste of snow.

O God! Tliy world indeed is fair!

It speaivs in thousand tones of Thee!
Thv voice is in the evening; air.

Thy footsteps on the mornin«); sea.

JH-

P^ROST.\VOr«K.'

ll'U vvaniiost smil*. f..
A"^^in,^bH,«:' ;,,.':,;•'; "-'n's'-t. the ,..„,,,

Js 'lim^klv Kone '-,..,,.1, , „ ' ''°""

seen Poh -,c .00^ —

'•I

.m^i.

-r -I

THK SINGER.

OUL of beauty and music ! Spirit of melody !

Moving my deepest being, as with a sway divine :—
Royal mistress of rapture — majestic — matchless — free I

How thy voice is breathing life in the heart of eaeli
passionate line !
Sure Music is Beauty, and Beauty is Truth. I ween ;
But of Song, and Truth, and Beauty, is Love the Queen.

Sing ! and I straight am dreaming ! Thou sweepest, with
seraph sheen,
Aloft through measureless spaces; or treadest witli
calmest grace

Where ripples of laughing water with mirth are stirring
the green
Of grasses, and rushes, and flowers of many a forest
place ;

Or in the sunless alleys — the haunts of a toil-worn race,

Where wife and child are wailing in front of a death-
dark face !

Soul of beauty and music ! Spirit of melody !—
Opening the gates of rapture, the dungeon doors of
moan!

THE SINtfEB,

207

Thou swayost a witching sreptre! thou HitteHt rcgnantly,
My heurl H uiolodlous uiouarch! uiy t^u<M>u on Mu»lc*s

throu(>!
80 In thy tranquil heauty ev('rni(»i-«> sit thou scn'nc;
80 of thy triumphs and raptuivH let Love hi> (>verinore

Queen !

Iffpp^v

A POET'S WISH.

t —

I F I could have whatever I nii<5lit choose,
"r I would iny Spenser's faery spirit ask
To lead my thoii<>hts to beauty, and infuse

The power and impulse for some glorious task ;-

In sunny spaces of >;reen woods to bask;
To tread where leafy fingers sprinkle dews

Of consecration; where from poet's flask
1 drink rich llippocrene. While we p(M'us(;

The calm of Nature's face, most tenderly
She smiles her love into our hearts; and hues

That never perisii enter tlie charmed eye;
And while companioned with the h)ft3' Muse
The sovereign moments lose all «lull monotony.

THE DAISY.

FROM CHAUCER.

— When coineg the month of May,
Aiul the returiiiM<>; birds an^ lieard to sin^.
And all the meadow tlowei's begin to spring,
I am awake at early mornin*;: tide,
Aud every book and prayer is laid aside,
Because my heart is lilled with this delight,
As soon as fades the shadow of the night.
To walk amid the blossoms, white and red,
With which the mead's green bosom is bespread.
And most 1 love the simi)le blooms and small
Which in our neighborhood we daisies call, —
ISweet objects of alVection and esteem !
So when May sheddeth down her sunny i)eam,
There dawns no day that tindeth nie in bed;
But 1 am up, the downy lields to tread,
And see this blossom of humility
And love, ope to the eun its little eye:
For when it springs up early on the morrow.
The sight so blissful softens all my sorrow;

I . '(It

210

THE DAISY.

My heart is glad that I am corae to see

Its smile — and I admire it reverently,

And hold it prime of all the flowers, and peer.

Sweet virtuous type of honor most sincere,

And ever fair the same, and fresh of hue I

I love it always — it seems ever new —

And I shall love it alwavs till I die. ♦ * ♦

? h

'''\

I. :i

SONG.

LOPE softly o'er the verdurous mead,

Sunlight of cloudless skies,
And kiss my lady's cheek I

Lo ! her deep, passionate eyes,
By love — ethereal love — illumed.

Eclipse thy whitest beams,
Whenever they glance back

The borrowed sheen of silvery streams.

Blow gently round the winding woods,

O perfumed, gleeful air!
And touch my lady's lips.

Wooing with kisses rich and rare :
Her murmurous breath, outbreathed in sighs,

Is balmier than thine.
Wafted from orange groves

In some far-off, voluptuous clime.

lis ■

, sia,

SILENT Sl^EKCH.

HE grecu leaves twinkiod overlicatl

And lightly on the turf beneath
She walked, — but not a word we said;

She braided me a daisied wreath,
With clover and young grasses blent.
While toward the sea we smiling went.

The glossy buttercups were there,
Sprinkling the waysides with their gold ;

And in the west hung splendors rare,
Of sunset, that are never told;

And on white waters glorified.

The quiet ships did brightly ride.

The charm of silence was not broken
With words that softly fill the ear —

Affection's sweet, responsive token —
Accents the spiiit leaps to liear;

And as we walked. 1 vainly sought

To plume with speech my fluttering thought.

M'-ri-

SILENT SPEECH.

218

We sat to rest beside the way ;

She raised her sweet eyes up to mine;
Her inmost soul had risen to say,

''And dost thou question I am thine ?"-
No need tliat she or I should speak ;
For love is strong when words are weak.

f«-'I

IvOVK'S BE:AIJTIF"TJIv sphkrk.

OOK at the moon, as her circUi of gold
Comes, when the days of her absence are told.
To gaze on the earth, her beloved : appear!
My Light, in the light of Love's beautiful sphere !

Clusters of violets lie at our feet ;

Clustering fancies and memories sweet

Rise in our hearts, my beloved! appear!

My Light, in the light of Love's beautiful sphere I

I have found in fair flowers Love's eloquent speech,
I have hearkened her lessons, the little birds teach :
I will tell them to thee, my beloved ! appear!
My Light, in the light of Love's beautiful sphere!

8tar of m}'^ sky ! pearl of my sea !
Bloom of a garden that blossoms for me ! —
Thou canst not be lost, my beloved! appear!
My Light, in the light of Love's beautiful sphere!

The star is my guide, the pearl is my prize.

1 piuck from Love's garden the light of thine eyes ;—

1 look unto thee, my beloved 1 appear !

M^i Light, in the light of Love's beautiful sphere !

LOVE'S BEAUTIFUL SPHERE,

216

Thou art ray queen ; and ray fancy hath built
A palace of leaves, raoon-silvered. sun-gilt.
Wherein thou may'st abide, niy beloved! appear!
My Light, in tlie light of Love's beautiful sphere!

The green leaves raay wither, the raoon may depart,
The sun raay be hidden,— but thou hast my heart
For thy warm abode, my beloved ! appear !
My Light, in the light of Love's beautiful sphere !

':■:

.■ •■■ "i-

!,;*:■■: ■;.v 1

AURORA.

Ij WAKE, my love ! thy languid eyes unclose !
^■^ Aurora's beaming self bids thee arise !
Fresh from the dewy gardens of the rose

She comes, 'mid crimson of the dawning skies;

The light of gladness mellow in her eyes,
Joy in triumphant vermeil on her cheek ;

Her forehead wreathed with flowers, —

While, in our shady bowers,
A thousand raptured birds her praises speak.

With wild wood harmonies.

Awake, my love ! She comes in bright attire !

Her breath is incense, and her kiss perfume!
Her heart beats with the rich blood of desire ;

To touch thy lily cheek to roseate bloom.

Flooding with waves of golden light the room
Where thou supinely llest on thy bed;

And through the cool, green shading

Of honeysuckle, spreading
Thy chamber window, her soft whispers come,

Her dews of love are shed.

Awake, my love ! nor fancy more amuse
With dreams revolving on elusive wing :

AURORA.

217

Knee-deep in clover blooms, the limpid dews
Have pearled her goddess feet ; the meadow spring
Gurgled her welcome, as she came to bring

Her light and freshness to the morning lields :
Come ! She will lead us onward
To wood-nooks, facing sunward,

Where every flower a temperate pleasure yields,
In its sweet blossoming.

;■.' 1 I

. .\

J I

!';?l?ffi!fl|!?j

: ,♦■; ':;

RAIN HEARD AT
IVEORNING.

AFTKK LONG DROUTH.

EARLY

WAKENING at the early dawn, I hear
The liquid tramp and footfall of the rain, —
The flooded spout outside ray window-pane,
Gushing and gurgling on my quiet ear :

Chiming, descend, from clouds low-hovering, clear
And lute-like measures ; while the fevered earth,
After the dust and drouth makes genial mirth-
Beats her deep anthem — multiplies her cheer :

The wide rejoicing fields their frolic sun

Shall soon give sparkling greeting, for the charm
To each green spire, each hud and bell, abounds:

Even now the piping robins have begun ; —
Muffled by distance, at the wakening farm
The welcome clarion of the cock resounds.

TO XHEK THE LOVE OK W0M:AN
HATH QONE IDOW^N.

"Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's brifht locks, and beauty's flowery crown.'

— Hemans.

OCEAN ! restless, deep, and lone !
What tribute dost thou crave?
riioii hast our fairest, favorite one —
The generous, and the brave.

He faded from the yearning shore,
With bark, fleet-wing'd and free;

He comes not — nor deserts thee more,
O solitary Sea !

The feet of Sorrow tread not where
Thy winds and billows rave ;

No flower, that scents the summer air,
Shall blossom on his grave :

But, 'neath the waves' tumultuous stir,
And tempest's thunder-sweep.

Low-wrapt in weedy sepulchre.
He rests with thee, O Deep !

)■

i ^^^H

^ HI

1 ■

220 TO THEE THE LO VE OF WOMA N HA TH GONE DOWN.

And she who nmiled upon his birth,
Nor dreamed of fate forlorn,

Mi» vHiiiflhM loveliness and worth
Shall nttver cease to mourn.

Nor she, to whom his lot was joined.

For all his days below.
The ringing voice, the manly mind,

The generous love, shall know.

Yet not with thee, O mournful Sea !

He dwells, we see no more;
But safe abides, from whelming tides.

On some diviner sliore.

WN.

MEMORIES OK "IL PENSEROSO."

" Let my due feet never fail

To walk the studious cloisters' pale,

And love the hi^h embower'd roof,

With antique {liTlars massy proof,

And storied windows richly di((ht,

Casting a dim religious lignt :

There let the pealing; origan blow,

To the full-voiced choir below.

In service high and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, throu)(h mine ear.

Dissolve me into ecstasies.

And bring all heaven before mine eyes."

|0 let me walk alone, when day doth fail,
And in the sky the ships of sunset sail,
Through minster cloisters, and cathedral glooms.
To muse o'er marbled shrines and laurePd tombs.
Where bards and heroes in their ashes lie.
Who give themselves to glory ere they die.
There, while the golden lights do downward stream
Through pictured windows high, with rainbow gleam,
The red and green and purple lustres glow.
And o'er the pavement rich illusion throw;
The choir shall chant, the organ-peal resound,
While ghostly shades to music move around.
'Mid aisles and arches.
38

"', . . I

jfppl

222

MEMORIES OF " IL PEN8EB080."

i I

I' )

Under lofty shade
Let mine eye wander down each colonnade ;
Then npward, where the painter's hand aloof,
Has bid ids angels smile from out the roof;
While frequent banners floating o'er my head
Speak of tlie battle, and the mighty dead.
But, chiefly, let the Prophet's voice be heard, —
Let the anointed utter thence the Word ;
And let the various tones of Christian prayer
Rise, making holy all the slumb'rous air:
There, let Devotion lift her raptured voice,
And Faith and Love, grown eloquent, rejoice; —
While in some space remote, or covert nook,
I list awhile and con the missal-book,
Or list the breaking of th' inspiring strain
As the great organ-tubes are filled again ;
And down the aisles and thro' the cloisters then
Echo the Benediction and Amen !

"Oft, on a plat of rising' ground,
I hear the far-oft" curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar."

Or from some steep o'erlooking hill let me,
Crowned with the stars, survey the evening sea.
And faintlv hear the dull, incessant roar
Of beating waves — the music of the shore :
And. with the rising moon, toward yonder isles
So dark, to note how dimly Ocean smiles.
Till every glossy ripple from the night
Holds laughing up its elfin pearl of light.
Will be a joy : and if a breeze should come
From pine and wave, witli music and with foam,
And wand'ring milk-white cloud. I will delay,
Watching the vessels darkling on their way.

MEMORIES OF *' IL PEN8ER0S0»

1j&

While suddenly, like splendid gliosts, they go

From light to shadow, with their sails of snow.

Or let me, list'ning to new melodies,

Watch the morn breaking over doubtful seas,

From which the misty veil uplifteth slow,

In ample welcome of the sun's o'erflow ;

And hear, commingling with sweet human speech,

The grating keel, the billow on the beach;

The ''Yo! Heave ho!"— the rattling tackle hear;

The sailor's song that, distant, seemeth near.

Thus, let this sounding frame of skies and seas
And earth, combine all moving melodies ;
And every form and hue and native line
Compose a picture with an art divine ;
That ear and eye, where'er the soul may move,
May draw delight, and prompt the mind to love.

; :. !

SON a.

IRT by a silver belt of the sea.
On this green island I wait for thee.

Pleasant this music of bird and of breeze.
Pleasant the sun through these sheltering trees.

Here I wander, and dally, and dream,
Lulled by the lip of a musical stream,

Waiting for eve, and thy coming,— once more
Grate, dearest keel, on my pebbly shore!

Vainly the sun, till thou comest, may shine ;
Vainly the birds chant — for singing is thine.

'J'he rustle of grasses, and laughing leaves.
That thou art coming, my sense deceives.

To break my reverie, dreaming of thee.
Lulled by the chime of the musical sea.

; i

> 1

UNSEEN VISITANTS.

lOMETIMES to th' earth ina)- th' bright ones come,
Through th' azure deeps, from their starry home.
And oft in our ears may their chorus swell,
As sweet as the murmur in ocean's shell ;
We hear the music of trembling strings.
And feel the pulsing of viewless wings.

When 'mid the toil and the heat of day,

The feet grow weary along the way,

And the heavy burden of grief and care

Seems sometimes more than th' heart can bear,

We hear their whispers at eventide,

And our griefs are hushed, and our fears subside.

When deep in the sky are the stars so bright,
And over the earth comes the balmy night ;
When gentle sleep on the wearied eye,
Like the beaded dew on the flowers, may lie,
They come to us, like elysian dreams
Of the gates of pear), and the living streams*

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III

226

UNSEEN VISITANTS,

But is there a heart that doth weep and bleed,
And is there a soul that doth meekly plead?—
Lo ! one, with a tender smile, shall come
Out through the gate of her angel home ;
Then peace — sweet peace shall that soul restore.
And the heart shall sorrow and bleed no more.

/>-

LINKS WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

IFE hath its depths of calm, its sweet repose.
Though cradled in the bosom of the storm ;
And better, — in the bosom of the storm

The soul discerns Love's Rose
Breathing with fragrance all divinely warm,

Upon the chilly upland of our lives.

Ah, Life! — ah. Death! How oft the spirit strives

To satisfy itself which way is best —

To live, or die — to toil, or be at rest:
To lie so sweetly where the placid calm
Breaks not in thuiid'rous conflict; where the balm

Of peace smooths the wild waters down.

Peace! — peace be thine! the peace of sainth' soul,
VVhich time can never touch, nor sorrow mar;
Be thine to see God's snule in Fortune's frowh,
And in the somb'rest sky the brightest star.
What though thy years are silent; passed afar

From fame, from earth-born splendor, earth-born pride?

Man's history is thine, — they lived, — they died;
But thou need'st never die

To that deep-i«earted knowledge, tliat stiong love,
That sweet and gentle-voiced humility.

Which well may grace the rcahns of joy above;

And which shall come to thee, through ways of pain,

As on the parched groimd falls the gentle rain.

I, ; ,

i. i

)': i

IIOU fleeting Surunpr-tirne,
How br^'f thy vi* < . *v our norland clime! —

Soon the tv.ght c.ov ''? ♦liou wearest on thy brow,
O languid maiden, with tue heart of fire ! —
Thou lay'st aside, — too soon for our desire ;
With parting smile thou answerest many a vow,
O fleeting Summer-time I

Yet, come ! The morning prime
Rings welcome, with the chime
Of evening! Earth for thee hath beauty now;
For thee buds, blossoms, spring,
For thee glows many a wing,
And woodland warblers sing
On many a bough.

Come ! while, at evening still,
The moon glints o'er the hill,
And starry spirits fill

And light their lamps ;
Watch our cots' wreathen smoke.
Beneath this aged oak,
And hear the hoarse frogs eroak

In ntedy swamps.

8UMMEB.

iil

Come ! while thy breezes pass
Over our fields of grass,
Swaying the twinkling mass

Like salt sea waves ;
While hedge, and stony close,
Have sweet brier and wild rose,
And the strawberry grows

Red 'neath green leaves.

Come! when the locusts flower;
When, in our garden bower,
Syringas rich o'erpower

The air with sweet ;
And when the eglantine.
And honey-suckle vine,
With morning-glories twine

The window-seat.

Come ! hail thy rustic bard
In shade of yon church yard.
Where mossy stones keep guard

Above the dead ;
Where the tall spire doth throw
Its shadow far below.
When the sun's latest glow

Is o'er it shed.

Conn? I through the dreamy day
Watch the white clouds that stray
O'er the blue heaven away.

White, to the west;
And when the sun retires,
See his long golden spires
Touch them with crimson fires,

Brightly at rest.
20

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280

SUMMEB,

Come ! wlion o'er niesidovvs soon
CIoiuls rise at sultry noon,
And every wurblcr's turie

Suddenly dies :
Heaven hides her regal crown,
And dons her darkest frown,
While the bright bolts eonie down,

liending the skies !

Come, Summer! bring the prime
Of the glad haying time,
To till thy golden clime

With its perfume ; —
With mower's merriest rhyme.
Sung to their scythes' sweet chime,
While the bee-haunted lime

Scatters its bloom.

Fair season, swiftly sped ! —
Where art thou, wand'rer, fled.
Leaving thy bright flowers dead.

And in the tomb?
Could'st thou not longer stay —
Fearing the Winter day,
Dull, drear, and bleak alway —

Shrouded in gloom?

Fleet, fairy Summer-time! —
Leavest us but crisp'd leaf, and frosty rime.
And maple's scarlet chaplet for our brow?
O langorous maiden, with the heart of fire! —
Thy lovers woo thee till thou dost but tire
Of all their fondness, and art gone — as now,
Thou fleeting Summer-time !

ivOVE IN solitude:.

t —

TN transient glory now the evenhji? shines.
T As the bright orb of day in pomp declines
Among the fiery draperies of tlie sky :
Remote from man's abode, in this low vale,
Where streams sound I'lear, and sylvan forms wax pale,
I seek my lover, Natnre's, dear caress.
Her never-failing balm of loneliness,
Whereof my spirit drinks.

Low breathes a sigli
From the deep heart of dryad-haunted tree, —
A sigh, faint, sweet as love might breathe for thee,
Adela, — and the stream that singeth by
Is like thy voice in tone and melody : —
Yes, like to thee the Spring's free waters speak,

At eve along the hollows of the wood.
When low in heaven the moon is a pale streak;

Or silence broodeth o'er the solitude, —
Save that the breath of Zephyr, wanderingly.
Seems bearing odorous record of thy name.

My Star of Evening ever shines the same —
Molt drop of gold on her high brow of pearl.
Where late 1 saw the sunset sails unfurl;

'I,

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232

LOVE IN SOLITUDE.

And thou, ray Star, art ever leading rae —
Thou go'st before me ever ; in my heart —
Its inmost secret shrine — thou ever art
Immortal, as are Love and Memory.

The sunset embers lingeringly expire ;

Through their gray ashes pales the fiery glow ;

And ever upward, silently and slow,
Nigljt climbs the awful skies with feet of tire.
Now round thy thoughts Sleep's silken curtains close,
While Love's lone rapture steals through thy repose,
Tingeing thy dreams, like clouds with silv'ring light,
And lending faery pinions to ti e night :
And fays through each sweet chamber of thy brain,
Star-browed, shall lead the dancing visions bright,
With hopes and longings in their music-train;
That, when I see thee, in those beauteous eyes,
Long-budding joys, like angels, may arise
From slumber on the rim of Paradise,
And beam on me with promise : — thou shalt be
Sweeter than sweetest solitude to me.

From thoughts of thee could I withdraw my mind,
What fairer, fonder object could I tind?

Of thee are all the dreams that haunt my sleep :
Be what thou canst, and go where'er thou wilt.
The pillars of my soul in thine are built,

The tissue of my life with thine is woven deep.

TO A STRAWBERRY BLOSSOM,

FOUND BLOOMING IN A STERILE PLACE LATE IN NOVEMBER.

*f *N pure but fruitless beauty boru

T To swift decay,

I see thee, child of summer morn,

This wintry day ! —
1 see thy virgin crest of white
Beneath the frosfs impending blight,
And the chill shadow of the night.

Where thou nuist die ;
For now the whistling winds corae on.
And almost the dull day is gone

With its faint sunshine by.
Meek, pearly flower, the frost hath power —

Hath subtle skill;
And ah! I fear the hour is near

That yields thee to its will !

I come, a saddened friend, to thee,

Who cannot save
The fairest flower of purity

That seeks the grave ;
For in my eye is fitful light,
Like the aurora of the night.

284

TO A STRAWBERRY BLOSSOM.

And on my check the hectic blight

That tell8 of deutli ;
And tlic faint lieart, whose life is iovc,
Doth with a lioavy laboring move

Detain ti»e Hying breath :
No magic art can health impart,

Or raise desire ;
To fade, my fjite, all desolate.

While hope and life expire.'

And should 1 pluck thee from thy stem,

And make thee mine,
I should but mar thy matchless gem.

Thy beauty tine.^
O ill-timed birth— belated— lost!
In sterile norland region cast.
Where brooks are skimmed with nightlj' frost !-

Why didst not stay
Till some more genial summer hours.
Wlien, 'mid warm beams, and fragrant showers,

Thou could'st thy charms display —
Could'st softly ope, and smile with hope

To win mine eye! —
But bird nor bee shall visit thee,

Who bloomest but to die!

So, cold and darksome seems my sky

Upon this day ;
So, like a dream at morning, I

May fade away :
Too delicate and sensitive
Thy slender fringe 'mid frosts to live ;

I. Written wlicn the author was in a low state of health.
a. Tine, to lose. Burns has made this word so sweetly familiar that it
must be my excuse for using it.

TO A STRAWBERIiY BLOSSOM,

And so my bosom to rooclve

What gathers there!
Hut is our star an evil star?
O it were better, better, far,

To (lie, than to despair!
Let us be gone. Come! tliou brigitt dawn

Of endlesH day!
Here to remain can be l)ut pain; —

'Twere bliss to pass away.

So, floweret, sweet, I leave thee here,

liOne evermore.
With none to watch tliy wintry bier; —

Hut He. be sure.
Who put this longing life in me,
And gave thy lowly lot to thee,
Holds all weak things, where'er they be,

In tcnderest can-;
Our sorrows but His love * isplay.
Nor will He on his creatures lay

More than their hearts can bear.
His plans by far the wisest are ;

In His design
Kindly embraced, thy fate is traced.

And so, dear flower, is mine!

U-r

P t

OOETHE.

E'S dead ! — with closed and sightless eyes,

The mighty mould of Goethe lies !
Poet ! — whose radiant words indite
Themselves on tablets spirit-bright —
Thy entering sesame was, '"Light!"
How grand that brow, jnst left behind
Bj its celestial monarch — Mind ! —
Which, in the sky-reared pantheon,
Needeth not marble for a throne !

O noble sonl, that brightly shinest
Through mortal clay with light divinest !
When thou art gone away —

Brightly uprisen, —

Thine emptj^ prison
Still glows for one ecstatic minute,
As if its heaven-born guest were in it;
Like some far tower, at close of day,
Set in the sun's descending ray.
It looms, 'mid splendid, rich excess,
Majestical and glorious !

|.'r"lM

1 1 ijr
8 'I

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St!

THE IvADY IN THE PICTURE.

t ~

I N my room, from tlio nult! old wall,

*|* Dinged with the dust of yeai's. and hare.
Just where tlie day's Inst siml)eams fall,

The portrait hangs of a lady fair:
Pale and delicate, stately and tall,

Light as a shower of snow in the air;
Her eyes are stars, and they shine on all.

From the billowy brown of her beautiful hair.

No nympli of river or liliinl lake.

No fairy figure on forest lea.
No creature of dreams, that moves to make

The night-world beautiful, bright, is she:
These are gone when we start and wake ;

Waking, her pictured face I see;
They the haunts of the heart forsake;

Slie ia more, as a woman, to me.

Look in the wonderful deeps of her eyes!

See the calm smile on her face that leposes !
Watch the high spirit, bcnignMuMy wise.

Tlie lofty couriige her mien discloses I —
30

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238

THE LADY IN THE PIG TUBE.

A breathing song, in the purest guise,

A silent poem her gaze supposes;
A bosom, birthplace of faintest sighs;

A poet's forehead, whiter than roses.

She hath homes in the land of thought,

She hath tarried in haunted spaces ;
Folded in her sweet brain hath brought

Odors and sounds of holy places :
And oft when I come with my heart o'erwrought,

Laden with frowns of darker faces,
She drops her light on the shadowed spot,

And lills my spirit with charms and graces.

Ha! do you listen to catch her name?

Matters not what her name may be;
Yet it flies on the wings of fame.

O'er hill and valley, from sea to sea :
The master-minstrel's enraptured flame

Burns in her spii'it, and will be free;
Him she interprets, and wins acclaim

For the prince, serene, of all poesy.'

Beautiful lights on the dim old wall

Clasp her round with your soft embraces ;
Softly over her features fall.

And fondly cover the kindest of faces !
Shine, my spirit to disenthrall

Of the shadows that linger — the carevvorn traces;
While the smiling welcome she gives to all
Each cold repulse of the world etfaces.

I. Shakespeare.

!s;

n truces ;

WITH BURNS.

"Wear \vc not graven on our he;irts

The name of Robert Burns?" — IIalleck.

HOU, of the maj^ioal and deathless name.

Who stand'st transfigmed on the Mount of Fame,

I long have walked with thee.
'Mid leafy woods, and tlower-bespangled plains.
By silver streams — through all the sweet domains
Of peaceful poesy.

And while I lingered by the banks of A>ji\

Or watched the Afton thread the landscape fair,

Hearing the birds pour forth
Tlie liquid music which thy vc^rse hath caught,
With artless, smooth perfection, — I forgot

That thou hadst gone from earth.

Thy form is in the dust; but proudly thou.
Arrayed on Fame's subllmest summit now.

Amid the lofty few.
Hast still the inlluence, unimpair'd by years,
To move the human heart to smiles or tears,

To soften and subdue.

',] s 1

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240

WITH BUBNS.

Thou art the lover's bosom-bard, I ween ;
Pure Highl.and Mary, and fair Bonnie Jean,

Bright in thy glory stand ;
Now richer blooms thy native si)Ot of earth ;
'Tis classic soil, the country of thy birth ;

Thy home is fairyland.

Thou, peasant bard, art now the poet-peer;
We contemplate tlie wonders left us here,

From thine innnortal hand ;
An<l while the song tliat Nature sings is dear,
Thy strain shall charm the heart, and fill the ear

Of man, in every land.

SOLITUDE.

OW fair is the Niglit in lier palace of shade —

The dau<;^hters of light that encircle her throne !
How sweet is tlie breathin*? of meadow and glade,
Where, exiled from slumber, I linger alone!

The sigh of the pine tree the solitude wakes.

It floats, with the song of the whippoorwill, nigh;
Its track down the valley the rivulet take;*.

And widens below to embosom the sky.

Thou murmuring brooklet! how sweetly subdued
The music thou pourest to-night on mine ear!

Thy gurgle and tinkle awaken the wood.

And birds in the tree-tops are lull'd as they hear.

The moon rises, filling the forest with light ;

I watch her soft beams with the shadows at play ;
She decks vvith her pearls the dusk hollows of niglit,

And sheds o'er the hill-tops a mystical day.

Now deep in the valley refulgently gleams

The green-border'd mirror, wherein the stars shine

So restful its slumber, so constant their beams,
Like the sweet star of love in this bosom of mine.

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242

SOLITUDE.

Alone, in m}'^ dreaming I turn to the past,
I walk with heroic companions once more ;

Or, rising in hope, I the future forecast,

Nor harbor a wish for tlie days that are o'er.

High visions inspire me, and lead me along,

And Thought, in a garment of beauty, comes forth ;

I list to the children of fancy and song.

And walk with the glorious ones of the earth.

Ye stars, then it seemeth ye glitter for me !

And haunts me with glory your lofty career ;
And breezes that whisper in each leafy tree

Seem breathing of beaut}' and love in my ear.

Thus, still, with the Night, in lier palace of shade,
An exile from slumber, I wander alone ;

The place of my hiding no voice hath betrayed,
The paths that 1 love have been chosen by none.

'iJ

ACROSXIC.

ROUND til}' patlivvay floats the light Divine,
Nameless in our harsh ton<?iie, but named in Heaven,
Nearer its fount of uncreated Glory.
In all thy sorrows, toils, joys, hopes and fears,
Eternal Love doth ceaselessly brood o'er thee.

Fairer than sun. or moon, or beaming star. —
Albeit illumined by some radiant angel, —
Is the pure soul that thrills — a harp jcolian,
Kinging forth harmony 'neath heavenly lingers.
Nearer to Thee, O God ! life's source and centre.

i ! I

SONG.

"Mes chers anus, qiiand je mourrai
Plantcz un saulo au cimctierc;
J'aime son feuillaj^e cplore,
Sa pak'ur ni'cst douce ot chore,
Et son ombre sera Icjjere
A la terre ou je dorniirai."

-De Mussel's Epitaph.

RIENDS, when I die,

And my grave is made.
Let me lie

'Neath the greenwood shade —
Alone, alone.
Where the winds make moan,
And the brooks run musically,
Under leafy light, along the valley : —

Where, save the birds, come none,
I have loved to lie alone

In the lap of the shaded lea;
While the white clouds sailing by.
Flecked the green sod silently,
And the long tree-shadows, creeping
Where I was sweetly sleeping,

Wonld come to cover me.

SONG.

24ft

Friends, when I die,

If the forests fade,
Let me lie

'Neath the f asrie shade —
Alone, alone.
Where the wild bees drone.
And brooks run musically.
Under leaf}' light, along the valley : —
Beneath the minstrel-pine
1 have dreamed these dreams of mine, —

And the willow is fair to see;
I love its leafy tear,
That shall fall upon my bier,
While the wild vines, slowly creeping,
Where I am lowly sleeping.

Will come to cover me.

^11

BY THE RIVERSIDK.'

An Evening Reverie.

I laid me down, —
Just when earth's dusk-brow'd mother bent to hush
Her nested children hid among the leaves—
Upon a «?reen bank by the riverside,
Where I had loved to loiter, with my feet
In reeds half hidden. Brightl}' o'er the river —
That pictured late the sunset's ruddy fires.
And, 'mid the pomp of purple and of gold.
Brown shaggy rocks, and shrubs upon the shore —
Quick fireflies flitted ; while the banks beyond
Hid in green dusk of every tangled thicket
Their pulses soft of wildly-wand'ring light.
Secreting and disclosing.

I. An episode of my life in Pembroke, Me. Our home was in what was
called the "English Village," and near a cheerful, sunny little river, bear-
fng the euphonious Indian name of Pennamaquan. Below, like, and yet un-
like, Lowell's Beaver Brook, it got choked in among the drudging wheels of
a black, fiery iron mill ; but its upper waters became quite romantic in their
circuitous wanderings among the woods. By its side I sometimes whilcd a
quiet hour away, of a summer evening; or, with punt.ind paddle, sought the
waterlilies on its tranquil bosom.

I • "mi^rxii-

H iili

BY THE RIVERSIDE,

247

There I saw
An* Indian leave his wigwam 'ncatli tlie trees,
Where yon firs darlcen, and the voieefiil pines
Spread their deep umbrage, and the white slim birches
Cluster like maidens out on holidays :
He trod the path down to the tranquil water,
Shot his canoe upon its glassy bosom.
And lost his gliding form in gleamy distance.

There flowers I saw witli upturned bells of gold;

White lilies, lying lapt in sweetness there.

With long dank stems, and water-lying leaves,

I saw, like nuns, in fragrant saintlincss.

Aloof from touch of a profaning finger:

And on a little island, tliat once floated.

The reeds and flowering grasses rankly grew.

Evening had soothed my heart; and now my ear
Was soothed by music stealing down the stream.
From farmhouse distant, where my friend ' and I
Landed one eve, and made with Andy merry.
But the deliglitful scene, all ligiits withdrawn.
Darkened, and still a shadowier veil was drawn,
Over the river, and the hills beyond me;
Over the home so newly, strangel}'^ mine.
Where sweetest life, anti costliest treasure were;
Over tne meadows, rich and daisy-white.
And garnished with the gold of butteieups;
Over the village street that lay behind me.
With the sniall chapel and Us turrets grey.
Snugly beyond the iuterveuing grove
That stooped toward my bank. I could but bear

I. Major Theakeston, of Halifax, N. S., who visited nic. We crossed,
one evening^, to the home of a parishioner, where we did a deal of laughing
over the adventures of Handy Andy.

BY THE RIVERSIDE.

The measured dipping; of some distant oar;
I dimly saw the little boat's white side
Green-striped, and anchored on the wave before me,
And dimly saw the twinkling starg reflected.

I fell to deeper musing. In that hour
My heart's home faded too, — the sacred spot
Where dwelt my v/ife and babe forsook the scene.
Melting away from memory. 'J'hen, instead,
On other hills and rivers I was gazing —
Scenes not less fair, and dearer than all others —
With a vague yearning after vanished days.
There was the cottage, silent now, that once
Uttered again the glee of sportive children.
And nestled them to sleep at eventide :
I heard my mother's voice, and saw her smile,
And look familiar love upon her boy :
My father bowed his head, as was his wont,
And sighed; then looking up, surprised, he rose.
Rejoiced ; while through the door my sister came.
With a glad cry, to meet me.

Then a touch
Upon my arm dispelled my reverie.
And brought me to reality again.
'^Come lor the night-dews fall, and damps arise!"
There stood my wife, with all her old-time love
And trust, and there was our sweet little one ! —
All wonder-lit, her bright blue baby-eyes
Rebuked my dreamy wandering— yearning vn'
Far from my chosen and my dearly lo^
So, hand in hand, amid the fields we wj
To our white cottage-nest, and left behind
The sweet-breathed banks of the star-glimmeriug river.

5 me,

ne,

>9e,
iime,

se!"
ve

n —

Iv, ,^ river.

TO-MORROW.

•'Thou art a vai^aryof the mind,
And they who seek tnee sliall not find."

H. L. Spencer.

^<© ~"

*fg\OAST not thyself of to-morrow," for thou k no west

not if the d.ay
Will bring thee the cloud und the shadow, or the churin

of the sunny ray, —
Whether 'tis joy or sorrow that upon its hastening wings
This transient, trusted to-morrow to thy waiting spirit

brings.

''Boast not thj'self of to-morrow:'' thou may'st droam

of music and mirth,
Yet bury th}' face in anguish, as tliou slnkcst to tlie

earth ;
Thou waitest ior the bridal, where the marriage feast is

spread,
But the bright eye of to-morrow may look upon thee —

dead.

"Boast not thyself of to-morrow;" nor say, if thou

chance to roam,
"I shall see, by another sunrise, the green hills of my

home :"

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250

TO-MOBBO W,

The hills may stand in the sunshhie that brightens thy

cottage floor,
Yet there may be lamentation for the one who comes no

more.

''Boast not thyself of to-morrow:" if thou art a poet-
soul,

Whose delight hath been wine and revel! for the wit-
provoking bowl

Cease not to-day thy singing; leave the beaker's ruddy
flow;

For to-morrow the sons of music may be silent and laid
low.

''Boast not thyself of to-morrow; but ere they have

flown away
Go, gather the store of blessing thj' God allots to-day;
Keach out thy hand with liealing for the weary heart

and sore;
If thou waitest for to-morrow, it may need thine aid no

more.

"Boast not thyself of to-morrow;'' but, with calm antl

sober thought.
Adjust thy restless spirit to life's ever-changing lot;
To-day dwell in the sunshine, and scatter thy beams as

free ;
For to-morrow the sun ariseth, but lie may not shine for

thee.'

1. One evening, while Robert Burns was at Brow, on the Solway short-,
he took tea at tlie lioiiie of Mrs. Crai^;, widow of the minister of Kiithvi'ii.
He had come there, in the extremity of disease, for sea bathing; and the
sympathy of the good lady drew him uitliin her i|uiet retreat. While the
little group sat at table, the setting sun shone full through the window, \i\vn\
the jjoet's face. Thinking the light might be too strong for him. Miss C'raii;
arose to drt)p a blind or liraw a curtain, wlien the poet interposed. "Thank
you, i»y dear," with a smile of the sweetest benignity, "for your kind attiii-
tion; but oh, let him shine! He will not shine long for me." This utter-
ance, than which few have been more pathetic, sugge. ,ed the lines above.

"tm

TO S. L.

TRANGE star! that, mellow'd i:i the dark bhie deep.

A golden glury pourest down! —
Lone isle, that gleainest in a restless sea
Of tossing flood and foam. —
My soul, with weary wing a-rest on thee.
Eternally hath found a home!

Let me forever lean on thy pure soul.

And listen to thy music deep —

No mere wild discords of 'i'ime's harp — control

Grand thouglits, that thrill and sweep.

In the love-guarded arbors of our life.

Lo! Earth's hoarse-nuirmuring floods of passion roll.

Lost on thy life's white shore.

Encircled by my life forevermore.

i{7-<>jfeO-

'^!

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A ?vl O N O D Y,

On our Beloved Poet, Henry W. Longfellow.

HE windy Marcli with trumpet slirill,

Pipes his rude phiiiit tlirouf^h lealless trees,
Cer marbled Auburn's burial hill.

With sharpness from the sorrowing seas;
Tlian organ-blast a wilder strain. —
Meet music for the Poet's burial train.

Swift harpers of a stormy choir.
They sweep, with many an angry wail.

And litfully, their viewless lyre;
Their numbers rise, and faint, and fail :

Perchance their airj^ dirges rise
O'er him whose well-tuned lute all silent lies.

Poorer, for dearth of love and song.
Shall Spring unbind her tresses free ;

And circling Cliarlos shall glide along
In pensive silence to the sea;'

I. Over the door of the old Cray^ic Ilciuse the elin-trecs will cast tiiiir
shadows, and at autuinii-tido scatter their crisping' leaves; but he will pass
under them, to enter that portal no more. Silently the river of his song will
seek the sea, as when he loved and looked; but he is no more beside it.

A MONODY.

2A8

The elms with leaves sluill shade his door
In vain — the gentle Poet comes no more.

Bnt can the Minstrel-ninsic die.

Or fainting, fall from notes so clear
To silence — as the cuckoo's cry,'

'Mid song-tides of the rising year?
No I conld the mind forget, we own
From the tonch'd heart each dear familiar tone.

And can my heart unmindful be
Of him who linked my land with Fame,

And wreathed with deathless poesy
Acadie's sweet, unstoried name;

Whose liquid numbers did (Mitrance
My youth-time with the splendors of romance?

Still tears confess the moving spell.

While live, in numbers \w:e and tine.
The mournful love of (Jabritd.
The sorrow of Evangeline —
That wandering, sad, unmated Eve,
Truest of hearts that e'er had cause to grieve.

What though we may behold no more

The reverend "• head that all men knew;'"''

That wild March winds sing dlrg(;s o'er
The sod that hides him fiom our view?

Each memory with his song is rife;
Ours is the treasure of bis deathless life: —

ll cast tluir
Ihe will p.i;-^
|is song will
side it.

A life, complete in breadth, in length.

To each divinest instinct true;
Where, on the rock of manly strength.

Each llower of gi'acc and beauty grew;
A life, serenely fortmiate.
By sorrow ushered in to its supi'cme estate.

1. " As the cuckod is in June
Heard, not regarded."

— .SlIAKR.Sl'EAKE.

2. () good gray li<.'ad tliat :ill men knew.

— Ti:nn\s()n. OJr Duke of \Vi'Ui"i,'loit.

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STKLLA.

O! palino^ from tho glowinoj front of dawn,
The morning star serenely sinks away ! —
I gaze upon the beaut}' just withdrawn,

And bless the bright-eyed herald of the day.

So. Stella! thou art lost in blaze of Heaven,
And God's light beanieth where thy circlet shone;

Thou wert to our delight too briefly given —
A transient beauty o'er our pathway thrown.

We never knew how precious was the ray
Of purest lustre in thy constant eye.

Until it ceased to gild our lowly way —
Like star-light, hid in the eftulgent sky.

Thy faded charms appear more heavenly-fair
As memory doth each beauteous tint renew;

Thy virtues shine with lustre still more rare,
As in the sunbeam ines the early dew.

And, as, when stars are j^one, the dew remains
Some sparkling moments on the iiowerj' lea;

I. Daughter of E. H. and Maria Spraguc, of Petnbroke, Mc.

STELLA.

255

So, while our own lier blissful orbit gains,
The tear of grief on Sorrow's cheek shall be.

And, as the sun soon drinks each dewy cup,
So in some clearer light our woes we drown,

While on thy brow, so highly lifted up.
Our faith discerns a starry-jewelled crown.

Shine in that sphere to which our hearts aspire,
Stella! — our star! — forever moving on,

While mornings break, and envious shades retire,
And the eternal day begins to dawn.

f.' ■

QIIvBERT HAVEN.

DIEU! — Thy comrades catch a siglit
Of th}'^ pale face — thy form they see,

Borne, bleeding, from the glorious tight —
O hero, crown'd with victory!

Gone ! from the vanguard of the host —

Thou foremost in heroic days !
Honor of thee shall make her boast,

And Valor wanton in tliy praise.

No more, with loved companions nigh,
Shalt thou their kindred souls inspire.

While, rapt, thy mind asoendest liigh,
To capture Thought's Promethean lire : —

No more in Song's divine arcades
Thou ling'rest. with the tuneful Powers;

No more, 'neatli academic shades.
Thou gath'rest Truth's immortal flowers.

Yet memory bids us see thee still,
Thou comrade in the stormy strife!

Cheerful of heart, and ttrm of will.
The light and force of many a life.

GILBERT HAVEN.

967

With sprightly wit, and manly sense,
Amidst thy peers thou well couldst shine ;

Arrows of keen intelligence,
And quick, instinctive thought, were thine.

And when thou saw'st the proud engage
To grind the poor and crush the weak,

Thy heart was filled with '^ noble rage,"
Thy tongue was not afraid to speak.

Prophetic faith to thee was given
In freedom for the toiling thrall,

Ere, to its dark foundation riven.

Thou savv'st the house of bondage fall.

Friend of the slave I his wrongs and woes
Provoked in thee the generous llanie;

How many a dusky bosom glows
At sound of thy familiar name !

They loved thee most who most could prove.
Who saw the sunsliine in thy face ;

The foe who could thy prowess move,
Knew thy benign, chivalric grace.

Thy conscience was thy king; thy God
Held in thy life unbroken sway;

Thy words and deeds, at home, abroad,
Were open as the light of day.

For, in thj'^ life's ascending spring,

When lightly flows the quick'ning blood.

Love lit her flame, and faith took wing,
And thou wert truly born of God.

Thou saw'st the years, at distance hailed.
Wherein so many vaiidy sigh, —

YV:

258

OILBEBT HAVEN.

" The fountains of my youth have failed,
And all my joyful springs are dryl"

Patience was thine, to work and wait
The calm approach of Truth's great day ;

While deep within, instead of hate,
The seeds of hope and mercy lay.

Not greenest wreath by Pallas given.
Could be thy toil's supreme reward;

Thy hopes and aims were raised to heaven.
Thy life was hid in Christ the Lord.

Well couldst thou bear the trying hour.
The toiling heart, the throbbing brain;

Thy life sprang up to richer flower
From deepest energy of pain.

And yet thou didst not linger here

Till all the joy of life is o'er.
Till sweetest strain shall vex the ear,

And Music's daughters charm no more.

But when thy work was done, indeed,
Thy star-bright crown did not delay;

The chariot, and the fiery steed,
Caught thy exulting soul away.

Hard was the strife, but rest is sweet —

The calm of joy forevermore;
" Good-night ! '" We soon again shall meet.

And triumph when the night is o'er.

Thy feet are on the sunlit height ;

Thine eyes the inner Glory see ;
Champion of freedom, truth, and right,

Forever thou, thyself, art free !

I- "Good-night!" he said to one leaving his chamber; "when we meet
again, it will be, "Good-morning!"

i'l

ON BISHOl* JANES.

HOLT, faithful servant of the One of Old.

Unchangeably the same, — thy years flow on,

With His. unspent forever; thou hast gone
Into that temple high whose gates are gold,
To see His face who with a love untold

Thou here didst worship. Xow, O may we feel

The vital hejit of such unfailing zeal
As fired thy heart, and made thy words so bold !
Thine are the well-spent life and reverend name.
That to the righteous cause shall bring no shame.

That bears the searching light of God's own day.
Our hearts, our memories, hold a shrine for thee;

And thou hast shed a lustre o'er the way
That leadeth on to immortality.

-^■

i)(3<>-^C^

THE 3URIAL OK OARKIKLO.

A low sound, a mournful hrc:itliin<j through the valleys — is it the night,
wind? A niurnuir, as of a^oni/ed roinnlainl — is it the ehoki'd stream? A
seemiiiff, as of niyriad fallin^j tears — is it the rain? A sound of many hells,
at inidniijht — are they for inournini^-, or juhilee? Alas, they are all voices to
tell lis that the sulVerinj^s of our beloved are over!

SOUND ! 'Tis the tolling in air

Of invisible bolls ! —
"lis a murmur of gritif and despair.

That arises, and swells —
A murmur of weeping, and deep

Multitudinous sighs,
O'er the pale face, now fallen asletip.

With tir sad lidded eyes ; —
Deep boom of the cannon, so dread,

O'er the Continent borne;
For the Hope of the Nation is dead,

And his countrymen mourn.

II.

Low anthems, and dirges are simg.
Where the organs throb sweet;
And the garlanded sables are hung

THE BURIAL OF GARFIELD.

961

In long glooms through tho street;
And. floated, declining from high,

Tlie stripes and the stars ;
While onward, dark-folded, still fly

The funeral cars : —
For our Captain is fallen — is slain! —

Our illustrious Head !
And a nation, heart-hrolien, in pain.

Bears onward its dead.

rl'::i

IvU.

it the ni>?lu-
i stream? A
f iniiiiy bells,
: iiU voices to

III.

The hrave and tlie loyal have come ;

And there sound, in the street,
Tlie dull mullled roll of the drum,

And the marching of feet —
The marching of feet, as they bear

The Cliief to his rest;
And accents that burtlien the air.

Of a people distressed —
Of a people bereft, and bested.

And bewildered with pain!
For a coward's right hand is naade red,

And their Captain is slain.'

IV.

Let the grave of our Comrade be spread,

As the couch of a bride.
With blossoms the s«;ason hath shed

For his burial-tide;
And strong as the song of the sea.

Fame murmur his praise.
Who, bright and immortal to be,

Hath so ended his days ; —
Whose wreath shall be green as the pine,

When its leaf is renewed ;
While Truth hath a holier shrine.

For** the chrism of his blood.

1. Tliis was written on the night before Garfield's burial, and while the
fever of indig^natiun and grief was still burning.

2. Because of.

■!»m

f%r.»»

IN PvIBMORIAM.'

S when aonie phmet, ••wheolod in lior ellipse,"
Through 5'oiKler purple roahus of tin; sky.
In sudden contlHgration flames on high
The blackened night, then fades in Death's eclipse ;-

As the strong bark that leaves the happy shore,
To sail o'er perfumed, lofty-sounding seas.
Feels, for a lleeting hour, the favoring breeze.

Then, cyclone-wrapt, sinks down foreverniore ; —

So smiling Hope, with starry wand, led on
Thy radiant soul to run a high career;
But soon, alas! Hope sank upon tliy bier.

And ceased Anticipation's antiphon ;
While sad-eyed Pity dropt a sacred tear,

Then beam'd a smile, that heavenly bliss was won.

O mystery of life ! — the strong, the brave,
Chilled in Hope's spring by Desolation's breath!
Large heart! that, butteting the waves of death,

Nobly resigned the life thou could'st not save ;

). Written by my brother on the death of a college mate.

IN ME MO HI AM.

268

Low-roverent before thy iini we bow, —

No ashes of ignoble chiy lie there !

Thine was as strong a soul, and manhood fair,
As e'er relentless Fate hath stricken low :

Thou, in wliose eye briglit liglits of reason burned,
Didst add the higher F'aitli tliat crowns tin; man :
A sonl conformed to (jod's own niatclilesH plan,

The lower goals of world-ambition spurned :

Thou, rauch-loved friend, to loftier circles borne,

Liftest thy licad to the eternal morn.

I 1 - i ! I

■Itii

i ■'

A F'OET.
I.

O) I ! with heart of dove-like tenderness.
And rainbow smiles, hung in a mist of tears,
How hast thou glorified our weary years,
And sweetened more our lessening cup of bliss!
Thy fiery-fruited mind gave thought a dress

Immortal; and thy rapture singeth on

Adown the generations, like a swan
On a smooth stream ; and wreaths that did not press

Thy living tenjples, we will place to-day

Upon thy tomb. Let ev'ry bloss'my spray
And greenest leaf be thine : do thou possess

Our hearts, and sing us an immortal laj"^ !
Whatever song shall die, thou canst not be
Forgotten in the realms of Poesy !

11.

Thou, by the wayworn wight— whose stinging smart,
From the sharp faDg of avaricious pride,

Thy manly words assuage — remember'd art;
And thou in gentle bof-oms wilt abide,

For thou hast been — sweet laureate of the heart ! —
By firesides where the humble only dwell;

A POET.

And tlioii their sorrows and their joys oanst tell,
And hast with tlieni a sympathetic part.
The friendless have a friend i) thee, and thon

Hast for th' oppressed raised an indignant voice;
Thon hast ennobled the uidettered brow,

And stirred the peasant-sonl to loftier choice ;
Hast opened the seal'd heart — the frosted mind,
And sung the strains that unify mankind.

m'%'

OTJR THREE SONS.'

HERE are the throe, who. not so long ago,
With ghidness filled our tranquil suminer-hoinc;?
Their blossoming youth— tlieir faces" roseate glow —
Their eyes, by spirits lit as pure as snow —

Their voices, as when birds in springtime comeV —

O, where the father's pride, the motlnu's joy,
Adorned with beauty of their llowering years?

A wintry mound — a book — some broken toy

Alone remains, of each beloved boy.
AVhile desolate Rachel sits alone, in tears!

Yes! they are gone, whose promise seemed so fair.

Who without tears can bo, remembered not!
So ever fades the bejiutiful and rare.
As sea-born splendors — glories of the air.

Or passing strains, that di<', ami are forgot.

And so, our beauteous sons — how doubly dear

That they no moi<^ bring gladness to our eyes! —
Were but as parting strangers, pausing her(»,
Then, with bright faces, hastening to appear
Before the smiling Father in the skies.

I. Children of Hiram and Harriet Dewinjf, Needham, Mass.

OUR THREE SONS.

267

Gone ! and the darkness falls about our way.

And shadows of the grave boclond us quite :
O Arm of Strength I— so (h-eary is the day,
And we so weak have grown — thy safety lay
Around us, and bestow a little light!

Gone! — the remembered faces!— the sweet sound
Of household voices!— vanish'd each clear gem!

We start from reverie, to look aroimd.

And see our heart's flowers scattered on the ground.
Our lilies, severed from th«» parent stem!

Our stars of liope they are ; now set on high,
To shine in twiliglit memory evermon':

The}' cannot change, their youtii can never die.

Their fair fresh faces fade i-ot from the eye,
As though they dwelt and sorrowed on this shore.

They pined to breathe .i pinei-, sweeter air.

They longed to look on a diviner day ;
So, with brief pain, such as the good can 1)ear.
And heaven-lit smiles, that lightened our despair.

Their gentle, sutt'ering spirits went away.

O patient eyes! that ne'ei- again imclose —

Though oft at midnight ours must wake to we«'p —
No length'nlng anguish robs yoii of i«'p<)se :
Dear well-trieil hearts, now healed of human woes.
H«*st ye! — "Jle giveth his beloved sleep."

Ah. long, thou sober-hued autumnal day.

>S.ialt thou in memory live. when, deep-opprest,
We l)ore Our Kdwurd's form along the \>ay,
And laid it reverent in its house of clay.

And left it lying in unbroken rest!

i'iie russet fiu'f Is rounded <»'er his grav<';
Above, the trees their naked arms oulspi<'ad ;

'i;

268

OUB THREE SONS.

And autumn winds the pines' dark branches wave,
As though they mourned that one so fair should liave
A place so early with the quiet dead.

Yet say not, dead ! — they are not dead who go

To God — who come to hills of light —
Who share the joys the first-born spirits know —
Who walk in raiment like the glistering snow.

'Mid flowery paths that never suffer blight ; —

Whose eyes, without the burning flow of tears.

Forever look on their liedeenier's face: —
They are not dead !— Behold I where each appears.
Above decay, and changefid lingering years:
Surely they live, who find that holy place!

They are not dead — but ah, support our faith,
Dear Lord ! — for dim the way by which they go ;

Unseen, the path that winds the vale of death ;

But what we know not now, the Saviour saith.
With joyful hearts, we may hereafter know.

So. to th' accustouj'd burdens we nujst bear.

From the deep chalice of our grief we turn ;
Its aloe-wine hath bahn of healing rare —
Sweet balsams, mingled by the Father's care.
That turn our tears to sweetness, as we mourn.

'Tis well with you, dear sons — nor dear the less
That we can see you in tliis world no n^o.e! —

Peace lives with you, and Love, and Jlighteousness,

For sin comes never to that holy place.

Nor Death can darken that enchanted shore.

Frank ! Frederick ! Edward I—sons of earth, whom God

Hath raised to heaven— adieu ! till we shall meet.
To part no more ! — to spread II is praise abroad,
Who spilt for us on earth His hallowed blood;
To cast our crowns before His shining feet!

DIRQE.

AliK I the iintliein .iiul tlio prayor
Biirtlieii all the sliimhenii;2^ air;
Doth the hell
Softly knell !
List, the story of the leaf.
Fading enil)leni, sad and hrief, —
Thou, the withering leaf.

Hear the solemn ritnal read,
Mournfully, above the dead :

Tones of bell

Softly swell !
Lord, have mercy, lovv he salth ;
'Midst of life we are in death —

Save us, Lord, in death !

See! the train, with constant pace,
iJear the dead to his own place :

MulHed bell

Distant swell I
84

-f \ '■■■

ft'

*;!<

■■■:!?,'■

>il Ji

270

DIBOE.

Drooping mourner, wan with woe,
To tlie giave in slleiioe go, —
Thither must we go !

Chant a paRan, while the tomb
For its tenant maketh room :

All is well

Where they dwell !
Christ the TiOrd therein has lain,
Now he lives in Heaven again ; —

These shall rise again.

Burial dirge, and burial prayer :
Here no more, forever there ;

Tones of bell

Sweetly swell!
Here no more, it soon must be,
And forever there^ with thee ; —

Hail! Eternity!

It'

ff^

t^^f^^x^

Songs of D^zmoTu^ and 3(onie.

^^^^^^^

It- ' I

i"' :.' Ik
i, 1 i

i • '<

%!■

PROEM,

I^UILDEK, rear me a home;

Strength, let the thnbers be;

The walls be Constancy ;
And I.ove the roof tree and dome,

Benignant as the sky;
Let Truth and Honor lie
Deep for foundation stones,

Richer than jasper and emerald ;
Let Thoughts, holy and bright,
Tenant the chambers with forms of light.

And Music's sweetest tones
Float echoing round the place :
Build a nuptial throne; ; be the Queen installed.
Of the fond heart, and beautiful face : —
Build me a home like this.

In which I may live forever;
A palace of the heart's l)liss.

That shall fall asun«ler never.

E)E1»ARTK1J DAYS.

A HIKTIIUAV rOEM.

sir

AUGHTERS so fair! iiained, of fond youth and love,

Departed days ! O hearts, to mine replyiii<^ !
Whose passions rich in dimes el^'sian move, —
Eyes! whose eh-ar glories are ensphered ahove,
Though their dear orbs with treasures lost are lying.

Ye friends! whose coming, like the fair descent
Of Light, broke o'er the darkness of my heart,
And calmed me into hallowed content, —
Ye took my dream of rapture, when ye went,
And with you did the joy of earth depart.

O days! O friends! I find you ever worthy,

As Memory weaves her tissued light and shade;
My musing heart sinks gently down before thee,
My harp shall breathe its sweetest passion for thee.
My midnight couch be Memory's altar made.

Fair as the rose that blooms in Sharon's vale.
Pure as the lily on the scented river,

DEPARTED DAYS.

27ft

ukI love,

arc lying-

Lit,

lade ;
lee,

thee,
le.

Brljjlit as the fisher's ilistanf, sllvory sail,
And mild as ove, wlicn siimiiior suns prevail,
Your memory comes— hut //' have ^one forever!

Days! — fair as pictures painted on the sky

By iris-pencil, held in sliininjif liand —
Your colors have not faded, tliou<:jh on hij^li
The cold ^rey clouds salute the weary «'ye —

Storm-shadows, o'er my heart's enchanted land.

Now thotiglit sinks soherly upon my spirit;

Manhood is here — its stru<::^le is be<?uu :
"Tliy boyhood's faery kln^don» still inlierit,"
Whispers a voice; though crumble wall and turret.

Where darksomely its blitliest livers run.

Yet Hope inspires — lier radiant cup hath tlavor;

The phantom, smiling, bids me dc^eper drink.
While Beauty yields its bloom, and Love its savor,
And Thought's swift stream goes softly on forever.

While yet I oidy stand upon the brink.

Ah, what are these unquiet aspirations.

That cannot be by balms and flowers appeased?
Whence are the dreams — the mystic revelations —
And whence the high, prophetical creations.
With which the charm'd and conscious soul is pleased?

Voices we hear, out (5f the Homes eternal,

Waking a longing, still unsatisfied —
Hunger divine, and yearning, sweet, supernal.
For good, o'er sunset glooms, and May-morns vernal,

With which we here may not be full supplied.

Are the high hopes that fail us, truly dying?
Or lingering in our hearts, to be fulfilled?

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY. 14580

(716) 872-4503

276

DEPARTED DAYS.

Are weary feet led vainly on, with trying
To capture birds of fancy, always flying? —
Is every promise sand on which we build?

God would not mock us I No ! His face grows tender,
And brightens to a smile; Heaven stoops again

To cheer us with anticipative splendor : —

Existence hath far other gifts to render
Than sorrow, disappointment, tears, and pain !

Ah, holy, these! Yet are there joys that fly —
Lights from immortal summits, lent to lead

And lure us onward to our native sky :

For if the gifts of earth could satisfy,
Who would ascend, or to the Heavens take heed ?

Then mourn I not for you, departed days !

Without this present ye were incomplete :
Let Duty win my service, love, and praise;
Let me, with Martha, tread life's careful ways,

Yet sit, with Mary, at the Master's feet.

' Tis not in vain we serve Divine or Human ;

The toil not dull, nor distant the reward :
Who doth with light one shadow'd spot illumine,
Who putteth joy in heart of man or woman,

Shall win the highest bliss life can aflbrd.

Love teaches us that this is not delusion —
These blossoms do not perish *nor decay :

Live, Heart ! thy mysteries await solution ;

The Light breaks forth in sudden, wide profusion !
And lo ! the dread— tlie darkness melt away !

ion!

EVENING AT HOME.

T home, in the silent even.

I coniinune with my Sonl alone.
And an old-time mnsic floateth —

A sweet, familiar tone ;
While my spirit melts within me,

And my eyes are full of tears.
And wakeful Memory glances

Down the dim and slumbering years.

The buried Past ariseth —

The loved of long ago ;
Their shadows move before me.

All silently and slow ;
These were my fair companions —

My friends and lovers, these :
Now Memory bids them enter.

For they come whene'er I please.

How oft in youth, aspiring.

We dreamt of a life sublime.
While the bells of our hearts kept ringing.

With many a fairy chime;
35

278

EVENING AT HOME.

The singers of earth and heaven

Choired to them and me ;
And we gl'>ried in tlie opal,

And the azure of slcy and sea.

We threaded the be.iming Future,

To the gates of the Evermore ;
And we strewed witli liopes amethystine

The sands of its star-lit shore ;
And, o'er Death's darkened portal,

To the Land of our desire.
Our leaping hearts went outward.

Like the flame of an altar-fire.

But the sun at last was darkened.

The stars had tear-dimmed eyes,
And the pearls oii the shore were pebbles,

And the skies were midnight skies ;
While the spirit's harp ^olian—

The harp unto which she sings.
Gave out a discord dismnl

From the clashing of its strings.

O'er the heart's forsaken threshold

Blew ever the windy years.
And fell the damp, dread sorrows —

The drip of lonely tears ;
There were sombre shadows brooding

Over the hearth and hall ;
Where only dirges were uttered,

And my mantle was a pall.

From the deep vaults of that cloudland

Breaketh a brighter day ;
And Love, through chastening sorrows.

Purgeth my dross away ;

EVENING AT HOME.

279

Soft moonbeams linger round me-
A strange and holy spell ;

And my soul in a radiant spther —
A sea of light, doth dwell.

Distantly fade the shadows ; —

I see them over the sen,
Waving their palms triiiniphant.

And beckoning to me, —
Lifting my soul forever

Over storm, and over strife.
And tilling me with the longing

For that deathless, perfect life.

THK CHILDREN'S VOICES.

MOTHEH ! broodiiiii: o'er lost itifjinoy,
Oft arc my solitary thoughts of thee.
Who sigliest for the living, jiiul dost iiiourn
For the dejir ones wlio never cau return.

O mother! seems the silence lonjj, since they -
Tliy nurslinj^s — left the nest, and tied away?
Or dost thou hear, at hush of eve, so sweet.
The children's voices, and their hastening feet?

O mother ! never, on this lonesome shore,
Such cheerful accents may delight thee more;
No more such ••footstep-music"' on thine ear
Shall ring, to tell thy darlings wander near.

But oh ! sweet jewel of maternity!
Some raptured greetings lie in store for thee !
**Let us go hence!'' Our home is there! — arise!
The children troop to meet thee in the skies !

I. "On my ear

Old fuotstep-niusic r^iigs." — John McPherscn.

SISTER Alice:.'

Y sister dour, tlioiigh thou aiul I,

CompaiiioMS in tlie years gone by,
Dwelt 'neatii one roof anil sheltering tree.
Nor tlreanied of partings soon to be;

Yet, in these duller, soberer days,
We walk in widely-sundered ways.
Nor look, ev'n for a little space,
On a familiar homestead face.

But there are tliey who still abide
Cottaged upon our green hillside;
Who look, through fair or cloudy day,
On distant river, isle, and bay.'-^

And still it is the holiest spot
On this fair earth, to our fond thought;
For there, upon that fair green lull,
Father and uiother linger still.

I. Mv elder sister, Alice Alberta, now Mrs. Bentley, whose residence is
in Halifax, N. S.
a. The Avon River. Minus Basin, und Five Islands.

SISTER ALICE.

Two yet rotimhi tboir joys to share,
Their pains to soothe, tlieir weiglits to bear;
And tliree are absent; two are not;'
liut none — all, none can be forgot!

One. in his strong, anointed yontli,
Tlie baiuier I)ear8 of lioliest Trutli ;
We liear from distant lieiglits his cry,
"Come upward I Tldnc tlie spacious sky!"

My sister! in that home of tliine.
Wliere lights of lov(! and virtu«^ sliine,
Tlie children group, on storied nights,
And bring new duties, new delights;

They bring tlie memory of a time.
The sweetest ever told in rhyme —
A golden, an enchanted store —
That vanished to return no more ;

The dewiest and the sunniest years.
Where rapture mingled smiles and tears;
Whose far-ort* gleams, through care and pain,
Come once, and ever come again.

But still, my sister, thou and I
Love ever, as in days gone by;
And Time cannot ungrateful prove,
Who takes our youth, but leaves us love.

I. One died in infancy; one wus lost at sea.

-rc

ECHO OK AN OTvD RALI^AD.

IJJ

'DO TIIEV MISS MK AT HOME.

HEN morn its fair prcsciioo disclosos.

An 1 tlu' sunshine is broad o'er tho lea,
As tlie dew-drops are fresii on the roses,

So the tears 'neath our eyelids for thee:
Thy name wakes the tenderest emotion ;

And whenever its music is lieard.
With the pnlse of the tn-mulons ocean.

The depths of <Mn" spirits are stirred.

iiy

1:1 \

When twilights with magical S'lendor

All our hills and our valleys enfold.
Then to musing our minds we surrender.

And we dream of the pleasures of old ;
The harp that thy hands have forsaken.

Hath been hanging in silence so long.
That its tones we no more may awaken. —

For thou wert the soul of our song.

* * * * ^> * * !tt *

'.'•'l,^
<(',?

VACATION.

OME, wIkmi the cycle of our toil is o'oi-—

WIkmi wo hiive reaped, or sown the tearful seed.

Then hid the hihorer leh'jise, and speed
Ills loujfhij^ spirit toward his native shore.
Home ! lieij^ht serene. l)elov"d foreverniore.

Above all star-horne summits shinin;^ free;

Home! isle unvex'd, beyond a sunset sea.
Toward which yon silverM saiTs enchantment bore
If I could reach thee, in thy far-off realm.

And find thee, with the gjronp, so radiant-fair,

Of friends and fancies, that adorned my youth,
I should not fear the waves that overwhelm

The voyager, eager to be once more there.

Pitching o'er glancing seas a snowy booth.

IN ABSENCE.'

INCE thou art gone away,

E'en for this little liour.
Upon my love's green spray

Hath ripened many a flower;
And many a tinted thought

My fancy tan discern.
Treasured for thee, and brought

To briglitcn thy return.

Ah, wert thou by my side,

No longer should I fear
The falling eventide.

The hurrying storm's career !'
Thy presence witli me. Love !

Thy light to gild the gloom.
The winter drear shall prove

Ev'n as the spring-tide bloom.

But wert thou. Love, away.
Ah, never to return !

1. Addressed to my wifv when she had been fi^one from home several
weeks.

2. It was in the late autumn, and the >yeather had been dark and stormy.

IN ABSENCE.

Cold oil tin* front of day

The suiiiiiirr-llroH hIiouUI burn :
My life wore sealed in frost —

Bonnd. never to be free —
If tbou, dear Love, wert lost

Foreveriiiore to ine.

For ab, in love vvliat pain !

Wiien tbe familiar face
And voiee of sweetest strain

Are missing from tb(>ir place!
For all, wliat woe in love!

If, upon sea or sbore,
Wbere'er we, lonely, move,

We find our own no more.

^i«

THB OLD HON/IE.

WIFTmove the stonnfiil yeura that hoar
This heart— this hme lifo-hark of luhie —
From yon far-hlddni ishiiid fah*,

Forth over inanhooii's sultry Hue; —
The teini)est-\viii«;'(l reh'iith'ss years
That sweep to the eternities,
O'er tliese low-lyin^, dark-hued sj'as,
Earth's arjfosy of ho|)es and fears !

Snnnner has eonie : and now. once more,

Tlie wanderer, lonj^ wont to roam,
Hath turned him to the (dden shore

Where lies his youth's seehided houje :
He passes lon^ familiar ways,
Lit up by jfentle nxMuorles —
Bright memories I — the golden keys
That guard the gems of liappier days.

O memories! O mighty spell

Breatliing around this oMarmed spot I

With voiceless music now ye swell.
And bring tlie hour of pensive tliouglit:

For round this liearthstone, yet once more.

(

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288

rm^ OLD HOME.

I call the dear unbroken band ;
From unseen shore, and foreign strand,
They come to greet nie, as of yore.

I see my father in his chair

With his two babes upon his knee,
While grandly on the evening air

Roll out the strains of old ""Dundee."
With reverent hearts, we happy boys,
Would, soulful, join the strain divine,
While "Ocean" or "Auld Lang Syne,"
Would swell the ocean of our joys.*

And one sweet voice there was, which rose

In tenor musical and clear.
Such as from harp ieolian flows; —

And evermore thy voice I hear
In cadence soft'ning through the years,
And still I see thy tender eye
Look, mother, as in years gone by —
Our rainbow hi a realm of tears.

I. When shall we hear attain that deep, full-hearted singing — that singing
with the passion : it, in which the soul had play! The old-time music, or,
as Burns describes them,

"Artless notes in simple guise, * *
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide."

Our family constituted a choir; but on Sabbath evenings, when there would
be no other service, the several families would assemble in one home, and
with the old Vocalist open. Music's self would breathe and speak. O days so
dear I

"They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ;

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy ofthe name;

Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame.

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays."

But ah, the home is silent now; the sweet-singing voices have ceased!
The strains ringing in memory cannot be heard there ! And in the day of or-
gans, choirs, conservatories, trills, arias, artistic, fantastic and self-conscious
singing, we are compelled to excl liin, with Wordsworth —

"Sing aloud
Old songs, tlie precious music of the heart!"

THE OLD HOME.

O golden isle ! O fragrant clime !

How swiftly flew your blessings l>y !
Now backward o'er the sea of Time

I cast a longing, tearful eye :
A dying sun sinks in the surge ; —

One moment glooms your Orient near,
Then darkens ; — naught the poised ear
Meets, save the darkling billow's dirge.

And one there was who always sung

The air of our old melodies ; —
A pensive youth,' nor oft among

The boisterous boys : — those happy days
He was our young Apollo ; he —

Skilled in the lyre, of Nature's mood —
Learned from hoar harpers of the wood,
And the grand anthem of the sea.

There was one more, whose deep-toned bass

Strengthened the music of our choir; —
A vigorous form, of maul}' grace.

With laughing dark eyes, like his sire :'
He was our buoyant sailor boy;

In life's flrst spring he left his home,
Afar on desp'rate seas to roam.
Inspired by young Ambition's joy.

Where now ! Alas ! his voice I hear

In dream J' echoes of the sea,
And distant tempests in my ear

Murmur their secrets fearfully;

I. A not inapt allusion to my brooding youth. Athletic sports I was in-
capable of.

a. My poor, dear brother, whom the sea engulfed, was the strong arm on
which our father and mother leaned. He was a spirited young man, and de-
veloped nobly; tirm and resolute, yet of a generous and playful mind. He
was the healthiest and strongest of our group.

■■:..* ^

■; H-.

THE OLD HOME.

Somewhere lieth his weary head

Beneath the restless heaving billow;
A mother's prayer still haunts his pillow-
May "holy angels guard thy bed!"

ilM

? -a'

"Tears, idle tears!" Though tuneless now

The heart that thrilled to songs earth-born,
Though nevermore his proud ship's prow
Shall breast the billow, tempest-worn;
What ill, if yonder Heaven unite

The broken chords to grander strain.
And if his shattered bark but gain
A port, emerged to realms of light?

Ye sounding siren-waves, still beat!
And roll, thou hollow-dirgingsea!
A world's funereal anthems meet

Deep in thy weird antiphony :
Still lush thy plaintive-murmuring shore! —
1 see thy driftwood idly roll ;
So hope and love, within my soul.
Drift idly on forevermore ; —

Forevermore, until shall ring
The Voice, across thy dread abyss.

That crowns thy victim, man, a king,
And gives thee back to nothingness:

let the Soul her languish'd flame

Rekindle at tlie fount of Day.
While heaven and earth do flee away,
Before the Everlasting Name !

1 go to meet the toiling years ;
They becktin— I their voices hear !

Yet, ere the vision disappears,

THE OLD HOME.

291

Brothers ! be thine a parting tear.

Swift move the winged hours that bear
This lone and frail life-bark of mine
Far over manhood's sultry line,

From yon home-island, passing fair.

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BABY'S KUTURE.

O tell me, sweet mother,
What will the bab)''s future be? —
Baby that laughs and chirrups at me ;
Lip of laughter, and eye of mirth.
Born with the prettiest baby on earth ;
Cheeks of the richest tint and mould ;
Curling locks of the wrinkled gold ; —
Tell me, sweet mother!

What shall it be—

His future be?

O tell me, sweet mother,
What will the baby's future be? —
Had you the prophet's gift' to see.
Ah ! would you smile as you do just now.
As you stroke the floss of that baby-brow ?
Would the pulse of the prophet-heart be gay,
Or the hot tear rise to be brushed away?

Tell me, sweet mother !
What shall it be—
His future be?

BABY'S FUTURE.

298

O tell me, dear mother.
What will the baby's future be?
What have the years for the child, aud thee?
When the silver threads and the lines of care
Are on pure white brow, and in dark' brown hair;
When your glowing eyes have a faded light,
Will the mother's darling her love requite?
Tell me, fair mother !

What shall it be -

His future be?

O tell me. dear mother.
What will the baby's futiu'e be?—
Ah ! it is wonder — 'tis mystery !
Well it is that our shaded eyes
Cannot see where his pathway lies :
Hearts might shi ler that now with joy
Leap to folio- . darling boy !
Tell me, fair mother!

What shall it be—

His future be?

O tell me, sweet mother,
What will the babys future be?—
When the boyish heart is frank and free ;
When the rival powers of love and hate
Storm the heart's castle and force its gate ;
When the touchstone of trial is lifted once more,
Shall the soul of this darling sink, or soar?

Tell me. O mother !
What shall it be—
His future be?

O tell me, fond mother.
What will the baby's future tie?—

■iif

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1 '

baby'lS future.

''Suffer the children to come unto me,"
He who suffered and died alone
Says, as He bends from His love's high throne ;
He can see where our eyes are dim ;
Offer the child in his youth to Him :
Tell me, then, mother!
What sliall it be, —
His future beP

W sa

O tell me, sweet mother,
What will the baby's future be?—
Signs of promise we all can see ;
Hope gleams out from that deep, dark eye.
Promise looms with that forehead high;
Joy of joys in our hearts is he !
Bright will the baby's future be :

Tell me, sweet mother!
What will it be—
His future be?

':^'>^:5Jt^(t?<^

THK BOYS IN WINTKR.

|HE moon is up, the sky is clear, the frosty air is still,
And gleams to-night the crusted snow that lies upon
the hill :
Come, with your sleds! — our starting point is where yon

spruces grow —
And let us have a merry hour, a-sliding on the snow!

Ha! are there wrinkles on our brows, and gray in beard

and hair?
And are not these the caps and mitts we school-boys used to

wear?
And are not these the self-same hearts of long and long

ago?
And are not we the boys that went a-sliding on the snow?

Come ! let us go and join the lads ! — we'll laugh at their

surprise !—
And, when our hearts are light as theirs, their shouts shall

louder rise ;
We'll sing an ancient song or two, they'll whistle sharp

and shrill,
And make the dark old wood ring out from underneath the

hill.

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296

THE BOYS IN WINTER.

li ■ -

We're meu, but yet we won't forget that we liave once been
boys ;

We'll take a little dash of fun, and make a bit of noise;

We'll give these leathery cheeks of ours a warmer, healthier
glow ;—

So take your sleds, and let us get to sliding on the snow !

Ah, who would be the churlish elf, that childhood's life
destroys,

Who frowns upon the children's mirth, and spurns their
simple joys?

I trow to stoop awhile to them might do his spirit good,

And waken in his shrunken veins a little wholesome blood.

I don't forget the winter days when, after school was done,

We took our sleds to yonder hill, and primed our hearts with

fun;
The ridgy drifts were pearly white 'neath sunset's ruddy

glow,—
And ah, but we \vere merry boys a-sliding on the snow!

How flew the pleasant hours away, until the sun was set!
Then underneath the glittering blue again we, shouting, met!

And all the girls, with floating curls, and cheeks as warm

as June,
With sweeter voices came to hail the rising of the moon !

They joined our crew, and quite o'erran our foaming cup of
mirth ;

We yoked our sleds upon the hill, and, singing, sallied
forth ;

The twisted smoke from farmhouse fires rose in the vale
below,—

Ah, 'twas a merry bout we had, a-sliding on the snow !

And there was one — O well ye knew the sweetness of that

face!
The heart of woman's gentleness, the form of woman's

grace !—

THE BOYS IN WINTER,

297

'Twas always summer where she went, wherein our love

could grow ; —
Come back! dear faded face, so long beneath the winter

snow!

Come! join the lads!— I hear them call! — We will not lag

behind,
But show the world a nimble foot, and eke a cheerful mind :
I would not wish to see my boys act cold, and harsh, and

strange.
For hearts— the manliest part of men— should suflfer least

from change.

What have we gained by growing old, if Time away have

borne
The fruit and flower, and we liave reaped tlie tliistle and the

thorn !
What have we gained if, making grief and care our only

store.
The freshness of our earlier days our licarts may feel no

more !

O had we kept our childhood's hearts, when boyliood went

away,
The years might not have scarred our brows, nor turned

our heads so gray !
Life might have more of tear and smile, and less of fret and

frown.
And restless Care with hundred hands forget to drag us

down.

Come! Hear them sing! — Sucli music bids the moping

drudge depart !
The sunshine of a cheerful mind, it opens up my heart :
The moon is high, the sky is clear; arise! and let us go,
And have an hour, a merry hour, a-sliding on the snow !

^ V ' t

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1 * ! ^'

1 y ;'

A. HOME-SONG.

'*--t

NGRATEFUL I may seem,
Dearest, to mourn
The years that, like a dream.

Never return ;
But ah ! their memory

Ever remains,
Breatliing of love and thee

In low, sweet strains !

Years — long ago, to-day —

Gave 1 this heart
All tremblingly away,

And mine thou wert !
Ah, what rare wealth was mine

When on this breast
I felt thy brow recline

Softly at rest !

Jealous of our great joy,
Pitiless years

Mix'd with our love alloy-
Sorrowful tears,—

A HOME-SONG.

290

Born me far from thy side.

Onward to roam
Over life's wearying tide.

And barren foam.

Oft, in the gloaming still,

I hear once more
Mnsic my spirit till —

Sweet songs of yore-
Songs that my l)irdic snng.

In the soft glow,
When our two loves were young—

So long ago !

Am 1 not still thine own —

My song-bird's mate?
Bid me, from wandering, home —

Thou slialt not wait.
While oft the tender tears

Tell thy heart's pain :
Fly far, ye weary years !

Come not again !

f t

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'■k

HILIvS OK MINAS.

VEIl MInas' wintry hills
Wide the whitoning snows are spread.
Winter's dirge her valley fills,

And her lovely flowers are dead ;
Every bird lias left its brake,

Every leaf has left its tree, —
Ah, what is there now to make
This a pleasant place to me I

On these hills- in summers gone,

In her gladness uncontrolled.
Lightly tripped the feet of one

Bright and beauteous to behold :
Lightsome form, in simple dress.

As the winds and waters free —
She was more than words express.

She was everything to me !

On these hills, at evening's hush.
Clear her voice was heard to float,

While the roWn in the bush
Sweetly trill'd his latest note :

Not the twilight's chiefest star.
Glittering o'er some sombre tree

>'i

HILLS OF MINAS.

301

From it8 }j^oUl(>ii home, iifar.
Seemed a fairer thing than she !

But my sunmief did not last;

Flowers decay, and fancies die ;
Sullen clouds did soon o'ereast

All my reach of glorious sky:
Down the limpid brooks, the while,

Did the turbid torrents roar ;
And my (Jarllng's voice and smile

Gladdened all the hills no more.

Over Minas' wintry liills

N(^vermore my feet may tread.
Since my Mary lowly dwells

[n the mansion of the dead :
Bright the smile that last she gave.

As the sun's departing ray ;
Green the grass was on her grave.

White with wintry snows to-day.

Over Mlnas^ wintry hills

Suns and seasons may return ;
There, where brooding memory dwells,

I can linger but to mourn :
Still my heart too fondly leans

Over what I loved before :
Fare thee well ! O pleasant scenes ! —

Pleasant now to me no more !

Y , since I saw thee last
On that resplendent eve.
When twilight o'er the radiant west
Did her dim curtain weave,

302

HILLS OF MINAS.

Darkening the liills we loved to tread —

What li<;lits are qiieiiched I what hopes are dead !

One face has sadder grown.

One life some brightness lost.
AntI silence holds the gentle tone

That gladden'd tne the most;
For not in all t\n\ world of air
Wanders thj' sweet voice, anywhere.

Lone as a plaining bird

Above her rilled nest.
The uiemor}' of piisr raptnre stirred

New sorrow in my breast:
Ah, why. beneath this changing sky,
Must fairest things the soonest die I

Then let my longing cease.

Let Love hei* loss forget :
If where thou art is perfect peace,

And never comes regret,
As in that last sweet eventide
I'll think of thee — my beauteous bride!

S;f:

m^'

assurance:.

I LOVE thee ! I love thee ! thou ever must be

y A vision of sorrow or f?hi(hi«;ss to me! ,

With tliee I the iiouie of my (^hihlhooil forsake;

For the vow 1 have spoken J never will break.

As the snn. and the stars, and the tides of the sea
Are constant, so 1 shall be constant to thee :
I'll love thee throngh sorrow, and trial of faith,
And prove thee allection is stronger than death.

I'll love thee, and s(!rve thee, nnwearied. alone,
When youth-tinu\ and fortune, and friendship are gone;
The prond may disown thee. th(; wise, disapprove;
I am thine with the strength and devotion of love.

Come back I O fond lover! though falsely they say
That I have forgotten, while thou art away :
My love may be wounded, my pathway beset,
My heart may be broken — 1 cannot forget !

How precious the thoughts I have hid in my heart —
The thoughts in which thou hast so tender a part!
With expectancy swe(»t I await thee awhile ;
Thou comest! — 1 live in the light of thy smile!

304

ASSURANCE.

I love thee! I love thee! Thou never shalt see
A moment of sorrow for falsehood in me :
When others, inconstant, from loving decline,
Thou never shalt weep over folly of mine.

Wherever thy pathway, whatever thy lot,
I'll love thee, and trust tliee, and injure thee not;
I'll love thee, and hless thee! — thou ever shalt be
A vision of hope and of ghidncss to me!

?■ !

1 1 ■

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i'M

V A 1. E

Rv AVONSIDE.

HE snow-cloud spivads its amplp slieet

Along the wintry morning sky ;
The feathery carpet 'neath my feet
Has gently fallen from on high;
And here, where clust'ring branches sigh,

And Avon's waters darkly swell.
We who have only said. 'Good-bye,'
Have come to say a last *FarewellI'
Yet let it still be but 'Good-bye!'
Tho' earth be wide, and years be long,
The heart is true, and Love is strong.
And we should never say, 'Farewell !'

The wintry days will pass, and here

The fields and groves shall bloom anew;
And Avon's crystal brooks be clear,

And these wiiite skies be summer-blue;
The thrush, returnii;g, shall be true,

The robin seek his fav'rite dell.
And fonder lovers meet to woo.

Who never come to say. 'Farewoll!'

306

VALE.

Icl

O let it still be but, 'Good-bye !'
The world is cold, the years are few ;
Let us be kind, let us be true,

And let us never say. 'Farewell !'

Each sacred hour, 'neath leaf and star,

Is ling'ring in niv memory yet ;
And though we wander wide and far,

I know that we cannot forget;
Be love our chosen portion— let

Our lives in peace together dwell;
1 bless the hour when tirst we met —
I cannot benr to say, 'Farewell !'
O let it only be 'Good-bye !'
The world of Love is wide and bright ;
The years of Love have sweet delight.
And Love can never say, 'Farewell I'

( I ■ !

TO MY mothe:r.

THOU, with magic in thy nnme
To tiiove all liearts. and to control
The \v; yvvard. and to wako love's slninbcring tlanio,

And kindle all the poet's sonl I —
Mother I thou name beyond all praise I

Though much my harp in Beauty's service be.
First, among other loves and lays.

Its chords are strung to melodies of thee!

I would not lose out of my heart

The memory of those early days.
When thou in all my joy or woe hadst part —

VV^ouldst gently chide, or warmly praise;
Nor shall the hope depart, that thou

Wilt long abide ; for. in my hours of i)ain,
I long to have thee bless my brow

With brooding sense of mother-love, again.

Far from the country of my birth

I have not found all hearts unkind;
For I have known, beside the stranger's hearth,

The generous heart, the kindred mind :

808

TO MY MOTHER

.1' 1

And woman's love my lot has bh^ss'tl.

And friends reach out warm hands to welcome me ;
But when they seem the tenderest,

'J'hey do but mind me, Mother, most of thee !

Then wrlcome! each fond memory!
Coming like summer's faintest sigh.
Breathed by the sweeteu'd wind from flower and tree,

Where southern voyagers wander by
The spicy isles. To pensive thought.
Each face, each scene, how dear! Ascend, O mind !
The cloudy mount of dreams,
Where inspirations are begot.
And where poetic glory gleams ;
But haunt, O heart of mine! the hallowed spot
Where flrst thou knewest mother-love was kind !

r^ci

^<mm

THE MARKIAOE IVIOKNINO.

I AM coming! my djirlinijl light-footod. Ii;j^lit-li;»urto(I !
T* The your of our \vaitlii<; has (hiwnod. jind dcpaitod :
Tho SUM is disporting in rapturous hluo —
Bright herald! anuoinu'ing my coming for you!

Your face at the window, my foot on the portal.

And the thrill of your voic(\ in my heart are immortal :

With that white rose, fresh-sparkling with morning's first
dew.

O'er your fond, swelling bosom — you break on my view!

And another, as moist, and as pearly, and fair.
Lights up the rich folds of your beautiful hair;
In fine flowing garments, with ril)bands and ring.
You are. daint}' darling, lit bride for a king!

But what pearl of the heart makes our rapture completest?
Ah! tlie purest of tears, in tin! eyes that are sweetest!
With a glimpse of lost treasuie in girlhood's bright day,
And of life's morning, passing in music; away,

O words, high and holy, be reverently spoken!

And weave the strong baiu^ that shall n<!ver be broken!

810

THE MARRIAGE MORNING.

Be brave hearts united ! be blessiiifjf begun !
As river and river are mingled in one.

But sadness will come with our joyous siu'prlse;
There's mamma and papa with tears in their eyes I
A sobbed word of parting, a hurried adieu, —
I know what they feel in this losing of you!

Now go we, my darling I the bright day is o'er us,
The future's wide portal is open before us !
With currents that steadily, shiningly flow.
Tenderly, cheerily, onward we go!

''i ■ ,..'■■

:!^

A rs/IAI3RIOAL.

HIXE eyes, 'mid their brown tresses' shade,

With richer lustre shine,
My own true wife, since; lirst was hiid

Thy maiden lumd in mine:
O, wlien tliey beam, on what swift wings

Tlie raptnred moments Hy!
What liappiness tlieir sliininj? brin»;s —

What deep, unsi)olv(Mi joy !

Since lirst I saw their mellow light,

And felt their power to bless.
They have not grown less clear or bright,

Nor have I loved them less :
With every smile and tjvery tear.

That joy or grief can know.
Say, what enchantment do they bear.

That I shonld love them so !

O gentle, loving, tender eyes I

Pure as the morning dew !
Goodness and trnth I more can prize,

Since I am taught by yon !
What newly-wakened hopes aspire,

What holier passions move.
Where thou hast shed thy kindling fire,

O heaven-born power of liOvel

P'KAOMENT OK AN El'ISTLE.

' j'.,

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IXCK I possess ii loose fucilily

Of <^!irl)iii<;' thoii»^lits in <^iii"iiM'iits inctroous,
(Which easy writ in;;*, as is wisely said,
I'rovetli liard reading" to tlie iiiaii of brain ;)

I'll couch n»y answer in this stra^<^lin^ verse.

♦ *♦*♦>(<*

Methinks I see tliee. even now rise up

Hefore me. like as when, of old. the years

Sat "gravely on thy youth, and stainpetl thy brow

•'With the pale cast of thouj^ht," made paler still

By an hal»itual air of sol)«'rness,

Which told of sntleriuii, not unfruitful in

True si)irit-(i<;pth and poet-prescience.

Thou ris<'st up before my tearful eye.

In the strong?, dauntless hope and faith of fame,

While life stood all before thee vista-like.

And gloomed and glorious in half-mysteries.

Do i not know thee w«dl — O ])rother mine! —

Whose childish ears drank in thy melodies,

Whose heart thrilled at thy early elo«iuence;

Tride, self-forgetful, self-appropriating,

liising within, and stirring all my heart,

1 ■ .

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE.

ai.'i

Such as one Kcldoin fcc^ls? Do I not know,

With pjihis of not tialf-roallzhig sense,

Tliy yoiin^ endeavors, and thy early years

Of partly unappreciated toil, —

Of toil all uncongenial to a mind

Like thine — nnilt to drudge, nnseen. alone,

Like the dull dray-horse on a dusty road?

Believe me. there is no one els(; on earth

Who knows thy virtues with a prouder heart,

Or knows thy failinnjs with a soul so tilled

Witli kindred fellow-feeling, since that L

'J'empted in many points, as tliou thyself,

Do «'nter at the unlocked portals of

Thy dear intinnilies. am' know thee well

For brother, by those dear intlrmlties.

I love a man who hath a human h<>art,

I love him for his Inunan failings too;

Hut O, thou proud, austere, and unapproachable.

In a i)articidar grandeur, get thee hence!

(iive me the rich, deep, divers»; music rare.

That tnunbles througli the human hart) of time.

E V E V .

ISTEN to mo, lauofhin^r Evey!

Weaving, Hiii<;iii^ songs for tlice;
Cutchlng, wlicii luy heart is lieavy,
Hiiiisliiiio from thy glee.

Thou hast boon ot sweeter sliighig, —

Music's self tlioti mayest be;
Thou liast movement — gliding, swinging,
JJke a swallow free.

Come abroad ! the whole creation
Doth with us harmonious move ;
And tlie sky's bright invitation
Seems to walks of love.

Stars are clear in heaven above thee,

Soft they slumber in the sea;
Calmly shining, bid me love thee,
Trul}', tenderly.

Yet I feel thine e3'es are brighter, —

Fonder heart can uever be ;
And my own, it groweth lighter,
Charm' d with love of thee.

EVEY.

31A

Gentle Evey. wilt thou lv)ve 1110?

Wilt tlioii ^ivc me simple fjilth?
I will hold me, I will provt; iiu^
(Juiistant until dciilli.

Smile consent-r-my suit approvliijj^,
With icsponslv*' passion movi'd I
Mine the double joy of lovln^^,
And of hcin;; loved.

Life cannot Ix; dull (>»• ^jlooniy,
IJt by siumy smiles of thine,
With thy l)lu(! eyes tnrniny: to me,
And thy hand in mine.

Come what will, with thee, I fear not;

Thou In darkness li^ht shall be;
Discords fall, but I shall hear not —
Save thy melody.

Then the frosty years may j^ather

All their snows on cheek and brow ;
Only let us love each other
Just as we do now.

Thine my son^, and thou its tire —

Thou art every nuise to me;
Thine my heart, without desire,
Save to beat for thee.

->J<^b))(l

/-<■

i '

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I- .•!_ ■

i;M-!

WISHES

. Written in an Album.

*f*F I should wish for thine and thee
y The happiest fortune that conld be,
I would not mention wealth, nor fame.
Nor freedom from reifret or blame;
For who shall live, and never feel
Regretful sorrow o'er hiin steal?
And who shall make the truth his choice.
Nor hear the world's reproachful voice? —
I would not that thy earliest days
Were spent in folly's wildering maze;
Hut these would I for thee desire : —

A heart, to love and meekness won ;
A heavenward tlame that might aspire

Through faith in the^Most Holy One;
A lowly walk in Duty's vale ;

An eye for all things fair and true;
Sweet tears, fond smiles, where cheeks grow pale

With sorrow: joyful work to do.
And good to prosper 'neath thy hand;
Largess of beautiful and grand
In nature, and a treasured store
Of poet's verse, and sage's lore ;
Communion high with Wisdom's sons —
A pure heart's lit companions ;
A nook on earth, while life is given ;
And, when earth fails, a honn^ in Heaven.

ffi

^w pale

A PRAYER.

AY the dear Lord of faithful Ruth
Keep thee from harm, my love;

Preserve thy soul in guileless truth,
Pure as the white-wiiig'd dove.

O may thy tender feet ne'er go
In paths where flesh doth fail ;

And may thy loving heart ne'er know
A woman's passionate wail !

And may thy days be passed afar
From doubts, and cares, and fears ;

From darkness of the spirit's prayer.
Where voice is lost in tears.

So may'st thou breast life's tossing

With song, and innocent glee ;
As when some wild-bird, flying, laves
Its bosom in the breaking waves
And white foam of the sea.

'!!■ ■ ■

I. ■'.

RECOONITION.

'if. '■

i 1

n^?' :

ii-m !

iiiK;r ;

Ah, Christ, that it were possible

For one short hour to see

The souls we loved, that they iiiifjht tell us

What and where they be. — Tennyson.

VER there lives within the human breast
This wish, ungratified. to see or hear
Something of that inviolable sphere

Where our departed loved ones are at rest :

The outward world is boldly manifest —
The air of balmy blue — the stars at night —
The moving forms of men — the birds in flight;

But, if we farther seek, 'tis bootless quest :

So I retire within myself apart
From show and bustle, and with Him commune

Who holds the secret dear to every heart —
The mystic secret Death revealeth soon :

The gleam of ui)per light— the glimpse of face
Familiar, sainted — the eternal noon

I wait, in faith, still giving patience plac^.

THK KADELESS BEAUTY.

t—
night ;

immune

There is a realm where the rainbow never fades, where the stars will be
spread before us like islands that slumber on the ocean ; and where the be-
ings that pass before us like shadows will stay in our presence forever.

—BitlwerLytton.

HERE'S a land of fadeless beauty

Bright beyond the misted sea.
Where the rainbow is forever.

And the stars eternal be :
Homes no human hand may fashion

There shall flourish and endure ; —
Spirits free from earthly passion,

Ever deathless, glad, and pure.

face

There's a land where chilly winter

Never comes with frosty gloom ;
Where no sin shall blight and wither

Eden's pure, perpetual bloom :
'Tis a land where never sorrow

Bids the mourner's tear to flow;
Where no frowning, dim to-morrow

Ever dawns on human woe.

If « f I

J'l

M 1

¥• J

^>.

A-

820

THE FADELESS BEAUTY.

Yet, in all our finest fancies

Never rose so fair a dream
As these sliores and stilly waters,

With their dayspring's living gleam,-
Where, in arras of Love enf olden,

I my cherished ones shall see: —
Oh, this clime, so glorious, golden,

Holds a happy home for me !

W A. ITI N Q.

They also serve, who only stand and wait. — Milton.

llj AITING 'mid the sliadows—wjiitiiig— waiting still I
^^^ Ours, to do, to sufter; 'riiiiie, the iioly will! —

Waiting 'till the furnace shall the gold refine ;

Till the eloud shall scatter, and the sun shall shine.

Waiting, only waiting for the door's unclosing;

Doth the Master linger? wait thou, watching still.

Waiting 'mid the shadows, yet not all alone ;
Thoxi art my companion — bright and holy One !
In the thirsty desert fountains are unsealed ;
Soon I pass to glories yet to be revealed.
Waiting, only waiting, till the trembling portal
Opens, and the Master is no more concealed.

Waiting 'mid the shadows, while through gates of dawn,

Triumphing, rejoicing, my belov'd have gone :

Vacant must their places on the earth remain ;

But, beyond the shadows, soon we meet again.

Waiting, only waiting, till the shining flnger

From their homes immortal hath the veil withdrawn.

322

WAITING.

Waiting 'mid the shadows, and the lonely years,
Breaking bread of sorrow, moisten'd vvitli my tears ;'
Restless on my pillow till the dawning gray; —
But lie comes, who smileth all my tears away !
Waiting, only waiting;— but the darkness breakethi
Hail ! t\:f joyous dawning! Everlasting Day!

"Who never ate his bread in sorrow,

Who never spent the darksome hours
Weeping and watching for the morrow,
He knows not you, ye unseen Powers."

—Goethe, Wilhelm Meister, B, II. Ch. 13.

;i> il

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THE ANSWER.

You ask what is the meaning of Kcble's line —

'•Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?"

He hasjust said, that earth would not be worth having, if it were all, even
though afuiction's kiss brightens it often ; and then compares those kisses to
spangles on the pall. Who wcnild be in a coffin for the pleasure of having a
velvet pall with spangles over him? What matters it to the dead? It is not
a very polite insinuation, however, to "dear affection." He means, who
would live this dead life for the sake of a few moments of aff'ectionate happi-
ness, or rather, a good many, for he says "oft?" I reply, I would.

— /". W. Robertson's Life and Letters.

ij H, who would prize a life like this,
^■^ With all its fleeting pain and joy,
Did not some hope of future bliss

A heavenly recompense supply?
Can that which seems so mean and brief,
So filled with drudgery and grief.
And disappointment — ending wholly here.
Be greeted with a smile, or counted worthy of a passing
tear?

Yea, in this world Love is so sweet,

So rich a recompense for pain.
One might, for a reward so great.
Live all his sorrow o'er again ;
And though, beyond the "-spangled pall,"
No dear affections might befall, —
Though in no other home were life, or bliss,
One still might smile serene, and thank the Giver for the
joy of this.

■ 1 *«.'>

W K^

TO ABBIE IN KLORIDA.

HEN God came to me, j^ears ago,

And l)rought for gift thj' heart to mine,
He said unto me : ''Son, beiiold,
A priceless treasure — thine !

'•I give it tliee to hold in fief

For me, until 1 come again;
Guard thou it well from night and storm,
From loneliness and pain.

''And if thou'rt faithful to thy trust,
And fill the measure of pure love.
Thou wilt not fail to find it thine
In the high life above."

I took thee to my throbbing heart ;

I lov'd with manhood's passion-power;
And in thy light my soul put forth
Her richest fruit and flower.

And all of earth that seemed most fair

Was gatlicred in th\ gentle eye ;
I never dreamed of grief and death,
When thou, dear love! wert nigh.

TO ABB IE IN FLO BID A.

32o

Hut now I s(M» thy fiu'c no niorp;

And often ask myself, witli tears.
If God will take the gift He j^iivc.
And leave nie (Mupty years.

For thou hast not yet borne for rn<!

Of hope and love the heart's full freight ;
Thou wear'st the crown of maidenhood.
And I toil on and wait.

And bear thee upward unto God,
With crying:, and with aj^ony :
Then comes the voice : "Was she not Mine.
Before I gave her thee?

**That which is best for thee and tliine

Thou mayst not know, thou <!anst not tell ;
'I'hou pray'st for life : be still, and know
The Father worketh well.''

And now I try to leave with God

Of Love and Death the mystery;
Assured, wiuitever happens here,
Ours is — Eternity I —

Assured our love will never pass,

Xor change, with change of earthly state ;
And should I chance to tarrj' long,
Thou'lt meet me at the gate, —

Thou'lt meet me at Heaven's gate, dear love !

With radiant eye and tearless smile,
And give thy lonely one the rest
That he hatli lost awliile.

A NEW-YEAR REVERIE.

OLD, and piik', and passionless.
In his chill and snowy dress;
Frozen in his heart. Ihe blood
That in sninnier li«^htly Ho wed ;
On his cheek the roses dead.
From his brow the suidight lied.
In his eye the frozen tear —
Lowly lies the dyin<rj Year!

Die with him the hopes away
That have conrted to betray, —
Ills, that leave the sting and smart
Of their poison in the heart;
Die. the hours that tloated by.
Mirthful as a maiden's eye;
Woe of heart, and strife of mind.
Leave a settled calm behind.

Yet. whatever he takes from me.
Dearest, let him leave me thee!
Friends, once fond and faithful found.
Slumber in the wintry ground ;
Some, inconstant, faithless grown.

A NEW- YEAR REVERIE.

827

Left me loiijjf to weep alone :
Far may tlie loni moment bu
Doom'd to rob my beart of tbee!

Can tbose eyes of b((av(Mily bue,
Dyetl witii soft, bixnriant bhie;
Like sweet summtsr-stara o'erhiiil
By dim eoverture of sliaile,
Full of all tbat may remind
Of tlie trutbfnl and tbe kind.—
(.'an tbose eyes. I love? tt) see,
Ever fade away from meV

Nay ! Depjut. sad year, depart I
Tbou bast blest a lonely lieart —
Made it tbrob witb fond concern ;
I will bless tbee in return :
t'ome ! Voun^ cb(Mub-cbild of 'i'ime !
Hail tbee, many a Joyous (;iiime!
May tby tinj^er-toucb impart
Gladness to my darling's beart I

Wilt tbou fair and faltbful prove —
Constant to tbe one I loveV
Bid no wing of doul)t or fear
Darken in love's atmospbere ;
Cbide the lingering bours' delay,
Plaste tbe bappy nuptial day;
Two fond bearts logetber draw,—
Love the link, and love the law.

Come I — 1 bless thee for her sake ! —
Bring the birds, tbe llowers awake ;
Tuft the earth, and tint tbe skies.
Bid the bowers of Beauty rise I

32h

.1 NEW-YEAJi ItKVEHlE.

Two fond hearts— in lastiiij; fultli
FiCt tlicm he iiiii(i(^ one till (li'Utlj I—
OiH' till {\v\\l\\'i—fi)riv('r oiM'!
Lov(! is <>ii(lle.sK unison!

i -1

t ,i

i I!

NAKNIA.

''t!

Imitiitcil from Srhillcr.

OON must the Hojuitcoiis iVwl

Vunqnisird arc Mom niid Immortals:
See I whore wan myriads hie

Down thro' the shadowy portals I
Hearts broken — breakiii<; tin; sod;

IJruised the tremulous blossom ;
Hut in the Stygian God

Yields not that steely-cold bosom I

Once could I.ove only prevail

Over the Kulor of Shadows;
Nor could Persephone pale

Linger in Enna's sweet meadows :
If, on the threshold of Doom,

Constancy's i)rayer can be granted.
Ilermes has instantly come —

Protesilaus is wanted I'

I. See Wordsworth's poem of " jLaodattn'a." Tliis dovoti'il wife, in
answer to a fervent, protracted praver, was pcnnitttd a brief ititerview witli
the spirit of her "shiiitjhtered lord." 'Hicir ronferi nee tenninated at the re-
appearance of llerines, who came to conduct him to tlie realm of shades.

!:|

lir

N^NIA.

See the green mounds where they lie,

All of them patiently sleeping !
See where, beneath every sky,

Mothers of heroes are weeping !
For the hearts of the Gods have grov/n tender

To mark all the sorrows of Time, —
How the Beauteous nmst fade in its splendor,

And the Perfect depart in its prime !

ANQEIv-WHISPERS.

NGEL-whispers, breathino^ lowly,

At the hush of twilight holy.
From the star-lit, shadowy heaven.
To the ears of mortals given :
Hark! the raptm-ed. heavenly chorus,
As they bend and hover o'er us.
While the silence is but sweeter
j,^ -vw.5.v vvino-s than star-light fleeter,

And their whispers, breathing near!

Angel-whispers, softly breathing,

Where young Love's flrst bands are wreathing;

Where the flowery tie is parted.

Leaving woman broken-hearted;

Where the widow'd mother weepeth

O'er her infant, while he sleepeth ;

Giving sweetest balm to Sorrow, —

Saying, '"Twill be well, to-uiorrow I'' —

Angel-whispers breathing near!

Angel-whispers, where temptation
Bends the true heart's inclination;
Where the fallen soul lies riven.

332

ANGEL- WHISPERS.

\ \

Unlamented, unforgiven ;
Where the wanderer, homeless, friendless,
Weary, walks a pathway endless ;
Where wan Genins, deep-dejected,
Sits in solitude neglected, —

Angel-whispers, breathing near!

Angel-whispers, where Devotion
Bends, with musical emotion ;
Where the contrite spirit prayeth.
And the raptured soul delayeth ;
By the couches of the dying.
Mingling with the mourner's sighing.
While the tide of life ebbs slowly.
Come the angel whispers holy —

Angel-whispers, breathing near!

^ V-

ear!

Sv^

e^:^^^^

iju- !

Songs of J^spiratiea and

Endeavor.

iiLi

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I, I

^^^■^^^^

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J!>0

AUXILIUrvI AB ALXO.'

i5|i

•Hope thou in God for I shalt yet praise him." — Psalm XLII.: 5.

HE morning breaks, with beauteous light,
Wide o'er tlic heavens projected far ;
And the bhie vault is burning bright,
With one resplendent, quivering star.

O'er all the fields" reviving green.

The sunshine's golden banners wave ;
Glint o'er the forests' dewy sheen.

And sparkle on the dancing wave.

In copses, bloom'd with sweet'ning brere,
And green grove-temples, framed for praise,

With most melodious meaning, clear.
The birds shrill out their matin lays.

But, to more shady haunt removed,
Thou liest. unlit, my woe-worn soul,

As outcast wanderer, unbeloved.
Whom none can harbor nor console.

I. Our help is from on high.

336

AUXILIUM AB ALTO.

Hear thou a Voice that softly says, —
"In this drear desert's wildering wild,

Where no hird sings, no streamlet plays,
Why art thou lingering, O my child !

If blight, fall'n on these glories rare.
Thy fondly-trusting heart depress.

1 am thy rescue from despair ;
And I "created, but to bless.'"

Come, from these melancholy shades,

And I will lead thee by the hand.
To sweeter, and more soothing glades,

And spaces of a brighter land.

'Come, if ttiy trusted friend forsake,*'—

If earthly lovers faithless be;
If woe thy trembling heart shall break,

•1 am thy portion ; come to Me !'^

Lift up thy head ! awake ! arise ! —

With cheerful tasks thy powers employ I

Why weep, dear daughter of the skies,
When Heaven would crown thy lot with joy?"

Hear, O my soul, the tender Voice !

Mercy thy sorrow all hath borne;
More reason hast thou to rejoice.

Than lie dejected and forlorn.

Dim not the radiant hours with grief.
Nor greet each moment with a tear;

1. "Shake oft" tlie melancholy cliain,

B'or God created all to bless."

— Thomas Chatterton, "Jiestg'Matt'on."

a. Ps. XXVII. 10.

3. Charlotte Elliot.

A UXILIUM AB AL TO.

887

Look smiling up — thy sure relief,
The promised Comforter, is near !

And O, His touch hath power to 8till
The painful throe, the sick'ning strife ;

And but His garment^s hem shall thrill
The pulses of thy languid life !

O why art thou cast down, my soul?

Why so dismayed? Though tempests roar,
The whelming floods, that round thee roll.

Would sweep thee to His sheltering shore !

Arise, and leave this drear abode.

Nor longer with thy griefs abide :
The thirsty soul that pants for God,

With Him shall soon be satisfied.'

Thou yet shalt praise Him. though- His hand
Not yet the lifted curtain shows ;

Though now thou canst not understand
What heavenly Wisdom only knows. '^

The tears, at eve, that rise and fall,

With morn's tirst beams assuaged shall be;

And the great Sun who beams on all,
Shall surely shine again for thee.

1. Psalm XLIl : i-a.

2. John XIII: 7.

QOOD CHKER.

HEER thee, O friend ! with tearful eye.

And head that droopeth low ;
Choose not to breathe the hopeless sigh.

And wear the look of woe !
The image of a lost delight

In memory lives on;
And, hand in hand with sable night,

Walketh the golden dawn.

Cheer thee, O friend ! and stir again

Brands of thy sinking fire;
Fuel of joy and light remain

To kindle and aspire :
If life, indeed, were cold and wan,

And utterly forlorn.
The last, worst business of a man.

Is fruitlessly to mourn.

Cheer thee, O friend ! thy hopes decay'd,

Beyond thy sight to bloom ;
Thou saw'st thy fair companions fade,

And did'st thy heart entomb :
Despair not ! blossoming greenery

GOOD CHEER.

389

Shall spring from Death's dark rod;
For, if they may not dwell with thee.
They live, at least, with God.

Cheer thee, O friend ! nor faithless be

To all that yet remains ;—
Life cannot all be misery.

Nor joys unmixed with pains:
Sorrow, too. hath Us sweet, they say —

Its charm to glad the sight.
As clouds, that hide the noontide ray,

May hold the evening light.

I J F' !

'I;

Up! Up!
The fair, white banner on the walls lift higher!

Up! Up!
Victory is theirs who falter not, nor tire:
While Wrong and Kvil form their proud array.
Will ye be weak, O children of the day? —
Will ye be weak, while One so strong is near?
Will ye be recreant, yielding to base fear?
Nay! man the walls, with many a hearty cheer !-

Up! Up!

Up! Up!
The King has need — the faint and hopeless call !

Up! Up!
For foeman-forces haste to storm the wall !
Say not, '"Tis well with me; I cannot go;
Am I man's keeper, that you urge me so ?*'
O, what a world were this, of sad despair.
If for his brother's need no man should care !
Be roused from self ! aloft the banner bear ! —

Up! Up!

UP!

841

Up! Up!
Why live we, but to bravely do and dareV

Up! Up!
Is Duty on tlie wall? then Safety's there!
Is Danger on t!»e wall? no malison
Of doom falls on thee, and thy task undone!
Haste !— if 'tis for thyself thou hast such oare.
And thine own soid thou'dst rescue from the snare-
Mount In the breach ! Salvation's onlv there !—

Up! Up!

1 !:■
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IvIKK'S NOBUEST HEIOHT«.

ITIFE'S noblest heights are liiddeii from the glooinless
'^ dells of mirth ;

Yeurs, that bring the dim skies nearer, bring prophetic vi-
sions too :
Down into our soids come intimations of life's worth,
If enshrined within our hearts there live the Good and
True.

Awhile Earth's gardens bloom, and the lofty planets burn;
We who tread this molten Earth shall see their tlames ex-
pire:
In the cycles vast of ruin, we alone shall ruin spurn ;
Life immortal shall be scatheless amid Time's dissolving

tire; —
Even unto eternal domes of glory we aspire.

['.

coiviiNa.

*"Tis comine ! Yes, 'tis cominfj." — Gerald Massey.
••Hlazon'tl on lieavcii's iiiiinortal noon
The Cross leads jjenerations on." — Shelley.

() ! from his liastorn Iiei^tit subliiue,

I hear the herald's joyous warning :
Day's glory deepens ! — far upclinib

The rosy splendors of the morning !
See ! yon triumphant steeds of light
Cliase the retreating hosts of night !
The valleys sing, the hills rejoice,
And sounds aloft one cheering Voice, —
'•'Tis coming! Yes, 'tis coming!"

Brows, bowed so long, lift, up to light,
\ot moist with unrequited labor ;
nd hands are clasped — the dark and white-
The bondman is the friend and neighbor;

And his own brother hath forborne

To make his bruised manhood mourn ;

For, travelling through the shadowy years.

The Just Me Merciful, appears, —
lieholi' lie Lord is coming!

r A

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844

COMING.

'Tis coming! Yes, our night of tears

Shall fade before Immanuel's glory,
Which now to gild our earth appears,

Foretold in ancient song and story, —
Foretold in that seraphic strain,
With notes which hannt our world again,
Though heard but once, and silent long ; —
From wailing lips a triumph-song
Shall surely soon be coming !

'"Tis coming up the steep of Time" —

The Light that shall illume the nations !
From heiglit to height, to Virtue's prime.

The Cross leads on the generations ;
Till, far as solar beams are spread.
The heavenly healing shall be shed ;
Till at His feet the world shall fall,
And conquering Christ be all in all.
Amid the ages coming !

"Tis coming up the steep of Time I"

And now the signal note is flying
From land to laud, froi:i clime to clime.

Mighty, unfaltering, undying!
Redeeming Truth's inunortal light,
Faith's triumph, Love's superior miglit, —
The strength of thoughts and deeds sublime.
Are coming up the steep of time! —
They're coming ! Yes, they're coming!

A CRY KRONl THE UNEMPLOYED

LABORER.

"TV" ROM the stony streets of cities comes a wailing and a
cry:

''Tliere is freezing, starving, famine! tliere is bread we can-
not buy !

Sumptuously the palace f.nreth. for no dog is there, unfed;

But they weep — our hungry children ! — and we cauuot give
them bread!

Chorus : But hark ! I hear
A voice of cheer,
Saying that not all of hope and help departs ;
For there will yet be work enough for willing hands to

do.
And there will yet be love enough for honest hearts.

Do they prate of studious leisure, from their thrones of let-
tered ease ?

What Co ?(."? the art of painter, or the poet's melodies? —

We are weary — always weurj'^, when our moiling days are
through ;

And we count it well, among us, when we have our work to
do!

346 A CBY FROM THE UNEMPLOYED LABOBEB.

I '\

Ah, how scant}' is the pittance I and how grudgingly 'tis paid !
You would not so treat a spaniel that you wished not to

degrade :
Mention not your sootliing fancies ! — burning hearts can they

appease ?
Long distress, or sheer starvation — these are our realities !

All day we've toiled like demons, but from us ever flow
The pleasure, and the treasure, while the wheels and spindles

go:
But our hearts are never shielded from the boding, feverish,

fear
That the woeful hour of hunger is forever drawing near.

Ah, once they loved the toiler ! — they did not then deny
E'en the green earth's flowery beauty, and the splendor of

the sky ;
Nor crush for gold that curseth, the heart to see and sing,
And the spirit that delighteth in each pure and noble thing !

Then Love stood in tiie gateway, when the father came at
eve,

And the little ones came running, his caresses to receive ;

And Love lit up the hearthstone, when the mother's con-
stant smile

Could the toiler's weary spirit to its burden reconcile."

From the stony streets of cities swells the murmur and the
cry:

'"See our gaunt and hungry children, born to want and mis-
ery!

A CRY FROM THE UNEMPLOYED LABORER. ?A1

Sumptuously the palace fareth, and no docj is there unfed;
But men cast to dogs the children, and to dogs the children's
bread!"

Chorus : But hark ! I hear
A voice of cheer.
Singing that not all of hope and help departs ;
For there will yet be work enough for willing hands to
do.
And there will yet be love enough for honest hearts !

iili

i'he: wine.

f.'Al,''

HE Wine I the Wine I How in the beaker bright

It sparkles clear, fulfilled with ruby light!
Yet, touch it not I Voluptuous Soul, resign
The rosy nectar! Woe is in the Wine!

The Wine! the Wine! Indeed it hath delight-
First of the treacherous joys of appetite ; —
Yet. touch it not! Just now the leafy vine
Holds purple clusters, sweeter than the Wine.

The Wine I the Wine! Doth Bacchus give high spare

For mental power, or spiritual grace V

O royal Hebrew, tirst to rule and shine

In Chaldee courts — th<ni spurnest the King's Wine !

The Wine! the Wine! O man. wilt thou destroy
Thy nobler nature for one fleeting joy?
Wilt thou, fond careless warbler! »iot forbear
The siren's licjuid blush, and shun l ; snare?

The Wine! the Wine! Poet, tliou dost require

A purer llanie, and a iliviner lire :

Minglest the lotos with thy wreath? dost twiin-

Fire-flowers? Beware! there's wei^ping in the Wine!

THE WINE.

The Wine ! the Wine ! Lithe Proteus, scintillant
Of wit and mirth, and song; that still dost haunt
Ihy purple deep-thou burncst in the brain
And o'er the heart dost sure dominion gain.'

The Wine ! the Wine ! flow in the beaker bright
It sparkles clear, f ultilled with ruby light '
Yet, toucli it not ! Voluptuous Soul, resign
1 he rosy nectar ! Woe is in the Wine '

349

REKORMER'S HYMN.

IFT up the fallen from the dust.
Thy brother's sinking soul sustain;
Pell him in whom the wretched trust,
When all the help of man is vain.

Go! raise him up, and gently speak,
And whisper hope — the task is thine!

For God is strong, when man is weak,
And help is in the Arm Divine.

Go! and the tearful wife shall smile.

And grateful ehildren bless thy name;
And man shall bless tliee that thj'^ toil

Hath saved him from a death of shame.

Go ! and to recompense thee, lind
What rich rewards thy toil repay, —

The L'onstant. self-approving mind.
The crown that fadeth not away.

Rl !i

BKXXER.

OR him who wills to be a tnaii,
Who says: ••! can.
Through the heart's lire, the miners docility.
Fashion my life to God's imperial plan,"—
There waits the gracious ability ;
Down-reached, a bright.
Strong Hand, shall light
And lead his nature up to nobler height.

For him, long valiant in the strife—
The restless struggle we call Life—
Who treads on Ease, and scourges Pleasure down,

There crystalizes a crown,
Jewel by jewel, and grain by grain.
Of the gold of toil, and the pearls of pain—
A high reward— a deathless gain—

The summit of renown.

For him who can
With multitudinous deed.
Simple and pure, lill up this breathing span ;
Who deems it best to work, nor wait

362

BETTER.

Till the divinity within abate;
Wlio aims to do,
Yet never seeks ignobly to succeed, —
For him, his dreams of high accomplish'd things come true.

Better, for him who can

(Who can is he who wills^) —
Drive, with his winnowing fan,

The chaft' of choking ills ;
And be the lofty-lowly man,
With an inspiring presence, like the hills
Whose freshing faces morning fills.
Joyous and wholesome ; he who sees it ever
Better to hold to nature's truth, and lean to falsehood never;
Better to brace the courage tirm, than to let the spirit waver.

|: I

To him they seem

Most true, most real — the supreme
Ideals, men have counted as the poet's dream :
Better, the glow of the heart — the mind's inspiring hint
Of the rising sun of truth — than the golden fruit of the mint ;
Better, when some dare doubt, for him to hope and trust ;
Better to say "I Wi7Z," than to sigh, '*Alas! 1 miistV —
Better to serve the Moor than a tyrannizing Lust;
Better, ever and ever, the honor of a man.
Than place, or pelf, or bravos of the shouting clamorous clan :
Better the cheek that turns, than the hand that smites ;
Better the Uower that blooms, than the worm that blights ;
And better trodden Virtue, than the spoiler of hearts and

rights. •

Better, for him who believeth
Salvation's wondrous plan ;
Who this matchless truth recciveth,

BETTER.

That Earth hath had her pure ami i)erfect Man,
Who ever lives — who lived ere time began;

Who had His sway o'er hearts, and was
A cheerer of the souls of men ;

While bathed in Galilean surf,

Or planted on Jndean turf,

His feet than pearls more white and fair,

Like open lilies, holy were ; —
Whose hallowed duties knew no pause ;
Whose Light ne'er veiled its golden benison.

'■ I

Better, for him whose faith can see

Dim through the Ileaven-eoncerted plan,
How Man sublimes to Deity,
And God descends to Man :
And better, he, who hath the call
Of Him who lived and died for all,
Should such unfaltering steps pursue,
And keep such glorious end in view,
Than sit, a gloomy lord.
In iron state, abhor'd,
Holding o'er abject slaves an undisputed sway.

Better, for him with whom the Truth is Might ;
Whose constant soul is wedded to the Right ;
Who keeps the Fit and Beautiful in sight ;

Who Wisdom weds,

And Light sheds,

And Love inspires, —
Kindling in generous minds contagious lires

Of Zeal

For common weal;

Who Wrath controls,
Hearing, with lofty meekness, the taunt of little souls.

364

liETTEIi.

Better, the Spirit'8 grace

In his heart to dwell,
And shine upon his face,

A beauteous miracle.
Than if all lights in space-—

Than if all beams in air,
Had slipped down from their place,

And softly gathered there.

Better, our evening glow
Than our dawning ray.
When tranquil pleasures, thoughts that softly How
Fulfil life's latest day.
Happy, he girds him to depart
To that blest region where his heart
Has stored its treasure : gently age
Leads to the green goal of life's pilgrimage
Heaven's favored son.
Whose crown is won.
On wiiose pure eye
There lights the radiance of eternity : —
He fought the fight.
He led the way,
And souls astray
Came upward to his cheering light :
And men shall say, —
Our paths are holier, less dim
Our doubtful hopes, because of him :
Of him with grateful tongues our sons shall tell :
His praise shall be
In memory.
And in the hearts of righteous men below;
Nor, at thejuster seat to which we go,
Will Heaven award him iW, who worketh well.

A WISH KOR REN^KIVTRRANCE.

"Are not all things born to be forfjotttii? Have I done cnougli to securt

myself a reputation of a thousand years? Well, but what is a thousand

years, alter all, or twice a thousand years? Woe is me! I may just as well
sit still." — Borroiv^s " LuTen^ro.''

t —

'¥*N that last hour of agony

y When lie was lifted up to die
Wlio did our sins and sorrows bear;
A plaintive voice rose on the air,
Where darkling stood the crosses three. —
•• When in Thy Khiydoia, Lord, rememher me /"

So I, O pitying Christ! am fain-
Out of my loneliness and pain ;
Or where they still the cross prepare.
And Hatred curses, and Despair —
To lift my sorrowing eyes to Thee,
And cry ''O Lord., at last, remember me T

And is it then, our mortal lot
To be. so soon, on earth forgot?

I. Written in Cambridge, Mass., one Sabbath evening in the Summer of
1S69, after listening to a sermon from tlie words "Iteinfinber me, when
thoxi comest into Thy Kingdom."

866

A WISH FOR HEMKMBHANCE.

Must wo, who seek to mako nur worth
A pniiso and ^loiy on the earth,
Lie, unroiiiemberM. in tlie (hist? —
Forget us not, thou Merciful, and Just!

No tablet, or memorial stone.
Can make me long belovd, or known;
The boon no graven llnds can give
Ever In memory to live ;

But tlovvcrs inuHt spring, and grass grow green
O'er him who lies forgotten and unseen.

Away! delusive hope, away! —
That man, the; creature of a day,
May ever, in his highest pride
Of thought, achieve what may abide !
lie dies! — his works shall perish too —
Oblivion buries all that he can do.

Illustrious day, and starry night
See manhood pale Its little light :
The hills, the solemn solitudes.
The restless, thunder-sounding floods,
Endure, the same ; but not to me
liemains an earthly immortality.

Nor yet, this universal frame
From ancient years, remains the same ;
Its temples hasten to decay,
And it shall change and pass away:
Ah, that I may my lot secure
Where life is permanent, and can endure!

For, O my God ! it shall be well
If I in Th'j remembrance dwell;

A WISH FOR liEMEMHIiANCE.

JWI

Whether tho sea shall hill my rest
Or earth ei.fohl me in her breast.-
NVhate'er my fate, howe'er my h)t
"n« well, if Th,n, fo,.p,t Thy ereature „ot.

I ask no fame, but this,-that [
In God's remembrance may not die •
But. with Ills rl^ri.teoiis children, be
In lovin^r thought perpefnally;
Then I can eartldy life fore^r,),
U'irh every hop,, of memory h,.Iow

i (

DEUS DESCENSUS.

HE Loi 1 ! His ^lory d«>scnn(lod ;

Tho darkness was imdor His feet.
VV ith clouds, and witii liglitnings all splendid.

And angels, majestif' and fleet;
Tlie chariot-winds. In their fury.

Came bearing their Monarch abroad.
And pinions cherubic did carry

Their awful, omnipotent God.

The Lord from His glory descended;

And once in a nmnger forlorn,
p]rc the concert angelie was ended,

A wonderful Infant was born.
Behold Him, ye sages! reposing.

With (]uiet and beautifiU face,
Who soon shall redeem us. disclosing

The tre.'isures of wisdom and grace!

The Lord to His glory ascended ;

But still He goes viewlessh forth.
Where lie, in their darkness extended

The kingdoms and climes of the earth.

DEU8 DESCEFSUii.

359

He liveth, our Uelp, our Defender,

Forever and ever adored ;
And He to the ri.''hteous will njiider

A sure and exttMnling reward.

The Lord in His glory descended ;

Behold I for he cometh again,
With legions of angels attended.

Forever to rule and to reign I
Behold I for to judgment He conicth,

With ]ove and with wrath in His eyes ;
The lost to perdition He dooniefch.

But crowueth the just in the skies!

THE UNIVERSAL HOPE.

'^ ;

- ^1

"From this earth, this grave, this dust.
My God shall raise me up, I trust!"

—Sir Walter Raleigh.

EA. I shuH rise, from the decay, the gloom.
The waste, the wintry slumber of the tomb,

When sounds that lleaven-born Voice of sweet-
est power! —
Above my senseless dust the skies may lower,
And sweeping tempests sound a note of doom;
I shall securely wait for my appointed hour.

Then 1 shall rise I () let no envious doubt
Enter my heart to shut tiie promise out —
No dark-brow'd sophist steal my faith from me I
For I the face of llim I love shall see.
When, at the dread art hangels trumpet-shout,
1 wake to new-born life — to Immortality !

/ shall awake ! For my Redeemer came,
Ere morning's eastern gate was tonch'd with flame.
Up from the rock-hewn portal of the to«ab :
My faded llower of life shall spring to bloom :

THE UNIVERSAL HOPE.

361

And I shall praise His Everlasting Name,
When He, for me, shall break the awful, lingering
gloom !

Will it be long? Shall seasons bloom and fade,
And generations in their graves be laid.

And empires rise and fall, before that time? —
Shall the rank grass and brier, in summer, climb
Above my crumbling stone ; or darker shade
Cover my aslK^s o'er, and breathe the wintry rime?

I know not; yet this darkened dust of mine.
Bathed in the glory of that day shall shine :
The worm may fret these cheeks ; these eyes

decay
May waste, as the great ages roll away ;
Yet, in my flesh, illustrious and divine.
Shall 1 my God behold, and hail the tiual day!

Sharp Arrows.

BY REV. J. H. MOOERS.

A unique, book of 424 pages, handsome.hj hound in cloth. Full of

keen, crisp, best things for those v^ho wish to load heavily,

fire straight, and hit the mark.

It contains an Introduction by ''' Chaplain" McCabe, and nearly

100 pages of select poetry.

It pivcs iiif pleasure to most heartily commend " Sharp Arrows." Its struc-
ture is not scrmonic, neither is it a mere accimiulation of wise sayinfjs upon
important subjects ; hut it contains just enoutrh of what is best in both to make
its publication very desirable. Such a work would have been almost a library
to me had I possessed it at the bcjjinniiip of my ministry.

Rev. C. A. \'an Anda, D. D., Minneapolis, Minn.

The ''Nimrods" of the (Jospel have in this bo(^k a quiver full of arrows
such as "mighty hunters" ought to possess. It is full ot the wise and powerful
sayings of great men, written or uttered in their best moods.

C. C. McCaiie.

"Sharp Arrows" fills a gap in homiletical literature hitherto unfilled ; and
pastors, evangelists, temperance lecturers, .Sunday school teacht s and all
Christian workers must be fully impressed with its great value at sight.

Rev. A. D. Dextek. Pastor of M. K. Church, Monroe, Wis.

I have examined "Sharp Arrows" with deliglit and sincerely hope that I
shall soon possess a full quiver of them. It is a Library of brilliant seed-
thoughts, tlusteriiig around centers of Sacred Truth. 1 can think of nc-thing
better calculated to stir the blood, and set the mental machinery in motion.

E. L. Eaton, V. K. Madison, Wis.

May he obtained from the author. Sionx Fulls, Dakota, price
^1.50.