THE 
 
 PRINCETON POETS, 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 S. MILLER HAGEMAN. 
 
 PUBLISHED AT PRINCETON, N. J 
 
 PRINTED ON THE UNIVERSITY PRESS. 
 
 WILLIAM S. SHARP, 
 Trenton, N. J. 
 
 1879. 
 

TO 
 
 THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 JOSEPH HENRY; 
 
 THE POET OF SCIENCE, 
 
 For he hath caused to be written on the water, and 
 
 the wind, and every whither, the 
 
 autograph of sound. 
 
 943279 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I have gathered up on this old ground these literary relics which 
 I have found about it, in memory of notable men and women who 
 have derived their signal education at Princeton, and who must ever 
 belong most to her by intellectual birthright. Such memorials of 
 distinguished merit have had hitherto but a rude and casual keep- 
 ing, like names cut carelessly on dark old forest trees, and read 
 only in some stray gleam across them. It is time, now that long 
 death hath dealt hardly with many of them, that they should be 
 redeemed once more into each other's company in these choice 
 affections of their gentliest hours. 
 
 S. MILLER HAGEMAN. 
 PRINCETON, May 8th, 1879. 
 
BLOOD-ROYAL. 
 
 i. 
 
 O fair art thou Princeton, by river and tower ! 
 Thy wide-sounding bell, and thy dark-ivied bower; 
 O brave are thy temples with book and with throng ! 
 But to woman, fair woman, thy fame doth belong. 
 
 II. 
 
 There is not a Palace of Knowledge on earth 
 That vies with the genius of blood-royal birth ; 
 After all we have done when our life-dust is laid, 
 We are but the men that our mothers have made. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thy glory, O Princeton, thy glory we sing, 
 
 As thy fame o'er the world spreads her lore-laden wing 
 
 But fairer for us as we crown her again, 
 
 Stands woman, fair woman, the mother of men. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, 1 
 
 The Return of the Gods ; Fairy Mythology ; Woman's 
 Will; Mine Own; Eyes; The Lore-lay ; Translations. 
 L. J. SHIELDS, 27 
 
 " In the Hollow of his Hand ; " Translations. 
 ANONYMOUS, - - 31 
 
 Silentio. -J . ~ t/t < // 
 AARON BURR, 41 
 
 My Message Bird. 
 MARY ISABEL ALLEN, 42 
 
 Knight's Templar ; Jairus' Daughter ; Translations. 
 ANONYMOUS, . . 5| 
 
 " Drink to me Only with Thine Eyes." <4> *& /H 
 AMELIA VANDEVEER, 53 
 
 A Summer Idyl ; Stilled Voices ; Pictures ; Nothing 
 
 Else To-night ; A Sabbath Dream. 
 FITZ HUGH LUDLOW, 66 
 
 To the Home of all Living ; Niagara ; A La Dame a 
 
 Voile Noire ; Ode To-night. 
 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE, 75 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 ANONYMOUS, . ^. - 77 
 
 Many a Year Ago. -/ Jft* /V7 
 J. ADDISON ALEXANDER, 79 
 
 The Doomed Man ; To the Rhine. 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS, - - - .... . . - 85 
 
 Sea Birds, Wild Sea Birds ! -V- stt. /A 
 MARY STACY WITHINGTON, --.... 88 
 
 Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra ; The Blooming 
 of the Cereus; A Fantasy; The Physical Basis; 
 Without and Within ; The Convent Sisters. 
 E. P. T., 100 
 
 I'Giorni Che Passan. 
 J. WADDELL ALEXANDER, ------ 101 
 
 O Sacred Head ! 
 ANONYMOUS, ... .... - 105 
 
 The Porch and the Temple, -t/ /> -L ^ 
 MARGARET E. BRECKINRIDGE, 108 
 
 Knitting for the Soldiers. 
 HORACE BINNEY WALLACE, 110 
 
 On the Rhine Returning into Germany. 
 ANONYMOUS, - - - - |i).,|f-' ' " H2 
 
 The Prayer of the Fallen ; 'From the Bark of an Old 
 
 Tree ; Cri De Passion. 
 JOHN MILLER, 118 
 
 She is not Dead ; What is His Name ? ; Strong Delusion ; 
 
 Our Dead. 
 ANONYMOUS, 133 
 
 As Children Fold their Sleepy Faces. 
 ELIZABETH HENRY MILLER, - 136 
 
 O Distant Past! 
 JAMES C. MOFFAT, - 137 
 
 Extracts from "Alwyn;" Without Christ, 
 LUCIA D. PHYCHOWSKA, 148 
 
 Border of the Wilderness. 
 HENRY J. VAN DYKE, 149 
 
 Wings of a Dove ; The After-echo. 
 
CONTENT?. XI 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN, 153 
 
 Art-Cycle Sonnets ; Song of the Hell-Spirit ; Alas ! 
 CORNELIA PIERSON, - - - - - - - 159 
 
 Scene in a Studio. 
 ELIZABETH THOMPSON SMITH, 161 
 
 A Parting Word. 
 E. P. B., 162 
 
 The Veil of the Spirit. 
 ANONYMOUS, - - 163 
 
 The Two Cities. ^. Wi- *H 
 THE STUDENT-SONG, 168 
 
 Ho, Students ! Come Out ! 
 CAROLINE HANNA PAXTON, 170 
 
 To- . 
 E. A. K., 171 
 
 A Fragment. 
 ALAMBY MILLER, __-._._ 173 
 
 To ; Only a Curl ; I am Free ; A Fragment 
 
 ANONYMOUS, --------- 179 
 
 A Lost Soul. 
 "RosA," 181 
 
 " We Were Friends Together." 
 ANNIS STOCKTON HOWELL, - - - - - - 184 
 
 Recompense. 
 GEORGE W. BETHUNE, ..---.. ig6 
 
 It is not Death to Die ; The Strife of the Angels ; Night 
 
 Study ; Dr. Bethune's Last Hymn. 
 ANNIS BOUDINOT STOCKTON, - 195 
 
 Ode to Washington. 
 WELLIAM BAKER, .197 
 
 My Rock. 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 WILLIAM W. LORD, 199 
 
 A Rime. 
 SALLY CAMPBELL PRESTON MILLER, 202 
 
 The Princess Louise : The Maiden All For-lorne. 
 GEORGE II. BOKER, 203 
 
 The Black Regiment ; Dirge for a Soldier. 
 CARRIE LOUISE HAGEMAN, 209 
 
 Beautiful Sunlight ; To a Lost Canary. 
 GEORGE L. RAYMOND, - - 213 
 
 Notes from the Victory ; The Destiny Maker. 
 ANONYMOUS, 217 
 
 The Rapids at Niagara. 
 ALFRED D. WOODHULL, 219 
 
 The National Thanksgiving Hymn. 
 FANNIE WOLCOTT RANKIN, 221 
 
 The Berg and the Bark. 
 T. E. GREEN, - - - 225 
 
 Violets. 
 THOMAS G. LYTLE, - - 227 
 
 Hope On ; Patriotism. 
 RICHARD ARNOLD GREENE, 230 
 
 Pride and Humility. 
 R. F. DUNN, 232 
 
 No, no, it is not Dying. 
 E. SPENCER MILLER, - 233 
 
 Igdrasil ; The Dying Skeptic. 
 MALCOLM MACDONALD, 239 
 
 Excerpts from Guatemozin. 
 HENRY CLOW, 242 
 
 Ossian ; Lines on Leaving Home. 
 ELBERT S. PORTER, 245 
 
 A Threnody. 
 
CONTENTS. Xlll 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 T. E. GREEN, - - 248 
 
 Hesperion ; Summer Time ; A Year Ago. 
 EDITH COOKE, 252 
 
 A Thrush's Song. 
 PHILIP FRENEAU, - 257 
 
 The Indian. 
 JOHN T. DUFFIELD, 259 
 
 Psalm XC. 
 CHARLES W. SHIELDS, 263 
 
 The Triumph of Liberty. 
 STEPHEN ALEXANDER, 266 
 
 The Nation's Hope. 
 
 HUMOROUS POETRY. 
 
 C. G. LELAND, 273 
 
 Die Schoene Witt we ; O Mine Frack ist im Pfand- 
 Haus ; Bolitics. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 277 
 
 Plain Language from the Irreconcilables Concerning a 
 
 Recent Unpleasantness. 
 
 R. E. A., - 279 
 
 What she said on the Way Home. 
 
 D. M., - 281 
 
 Variations on the C String. 
 J. ADDISON ALEXANDER, 283 
 
 Reconstruction of Society ; To the Spirit of Dreams. 
 FITZ HUGH LUDLOAV, 289 
 
 To a Red-headed Girl ; The Jolly Fellow. 
 
CHAKLES GODFKEY LELAND, 
 
 (CLASS OF " .") 
 
 Author of "Meister Karl Sketch Book," "Sunshine fr<m Thought," 
 
 " Heine," " Pidgin English," " Hans Breitman's Ballads," 
 
 " Poems," " Gypsies," &c., &c. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 
 
 Greece so thoroughly wrought out its conception of the beautiful 
 human animal as to make an idol of it, and in order to glorify it on 
 earth they made a divinity of it in heaven. The Philosophy of Art. 
 (Taine.) 
 
 LIKE one who looks over a city when day is beginning 
 
 to break, 
 I look o'er the millioned-homed age where we live in 
 
 the dusk of the dawn ; 
 Seeing the sunlight on steeples, or edging the turrets and 
 
 towers, 
 While the streets and the low-lying houses are grey in 
 
 the gloaming or gloom. 
 Light in the eye of the thinker, light on the brow of 
 
 the wise, 
 Dimmering shade in the spirit of him who is hopeless 
 
 and low. 
 
4 THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 
 
 Venus, the life of the lovely, soul of the exquisite 
 
 charm ! 
 
 Thou hast done penance for Ages, as we thy poor chil- 
 dren have done. 
 Short was the carnival season, in the gay godland of 
 
 Greece, 
 Few were the guests at the banquet, brief was the life 
 
 of the flowers, 
 Long was the Lent which came after, bitter the wailing 
 
 and woe ; 
 But the trial was good for the mourners, it humbled the 
 
 cruel and proud, 
 It raised up the humble and fallen, gave spirit and 
 
 strength to the poor, 
 And is freeing from slavery, woman, the slave of all 
 
 ages gone by. 
 
 Enough of the sack-cloth and ashes, enough of the 
 
 penance and pain, 
 Enough of deep woe for the Many, and feverish joy 
 
 for the Few ; 
 Joy that defeats its own wishes, and struggles in hard, 
 
 narrow rounds, 
 Ignoring the truth that great pleasure demands the 
 
 great concourse of All. 
 
THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 5 
 
 O mother of rapture and beauty thou too hast done 
 
 penance in grief, 
 Thou didst rise from the Ocean in glory red glowing to 
 
 kiss the warm sun ! 
 Short were the luscious embraces, cold blew the wind 
 
 from the north, 
 Thou fell'st in sad tears from Heaven, and on earth 
 
 wert a torrent of tears. 
 
 Now in comfort with justice and beauty and freedom 
 
 for woman and man, 
 Thou wilt rise in a rosier glory, and light every soul 
 
 with a ray. 
 For when man shall have learned that the spirit of sin 
 
 is but trespass and pain, 
 Trespass and pain on his fellow, or idle neglect of his 
 
 own, 
 And that pleasure which injures none other and wounds 
 
 not the spirit of truth, 
 Has nothing in common with evil, and touches none 
 
 other but self, 
 Then thou wilt be with us, sweet mother, and charm 
 
 every soul with thy smile, 
 Raising to Art all our labor and love be the life of the 
 
 World. 
 
6 THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 
 
 Mars, the magnificent master of warfare with foes to 
 
 the gods, 
 Brilliant and bold and unbending, thou too wilt rise on 
 
 with the rest, 
 For the progress of Man is the progress of gods in the 
 
 infinite scale. 
 He who lifts up the spear to do battle lifts also the 
 
 pennon and steel, 
 And though the point shine in the sunlight or gleam in 
 
 the glory of war, 
 Far over the head of the knight it must wait till the 
 
 wood has been raised ; 
 While man is deep buried in valleys his gods live on 
 
 mountains above, 
 When he reaches the silvery summits, they dwell in 
 
 the gold of the sky. 
 
 No more the Messiah of murder will Mars be the terror 
 
 of man, 
 No longer the dread of the lovely, the bravo exulting 
 
 in blood. 
 For in the great fight of the Future our foes will be 
 
 mightier far 
 Than men of mere sinew, and muscle, those foes which 
 
 lie silent around ; 
 
THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 7 
 
 The rugged rock-giants denying the room for existence 
 
 to all, 
 The awful deep Dragon of Ocean still keeping in secret 
 
 its plains, 
 And the solemn blue space yet unconquered which parts 
 
 us from numberless stars, 
 And the Fire-Land which burns in our centre, these 
 
 foes still await thee, O Mars ! 
 
 For the doctor who drives out diseases or shortens the 
 
 power of death, 
 And the teacher who quickens the spirit and conquers 
 
 the darkness of crime, 
 The poet, who blesses with beauty the soul that was 
 
 gloomy and grey, 
 The builder, the chemist, the workman, are warriors 
 
 each in their way ; 
 For what were the Jotunds and Titans overwhelmed by 
 
 the gods of the Past, 
 But the forces of fire and of mountains, the giants we 
 
 are fighting to-day. 
 Fighting more bravely than ever, fighting with better 
 
 success : 
 O Mars, thou wert in the first battle in the victory be 
 
 by our side ! 
 
8 THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 
 
 I know that the swift-footed Hermes will soon be be- 
 loved again, 
 For already man finds with strange rapture he holds 
 
 more than Mercury's power, 
 More than the might which was fabled to be that of 
 
 Hermes of old 
 When he touches the telegraph deftly and talks over 
 
 oceans afar, 
 As we go faster in motion, faster in thought and in 
 
 speech, 
 Quicker in means of conveying and shortening the path 
 
 of ideas, 
 Life will be lengthened while growing, for thought is 
 
 the measure of life, 
 He who speaks or does most in a little is Mercury's son 
 
 and himself. 
 
 And with Labor and Love and with conquest and speed 
 all the rest will be won, 
 
 With Vulcan and Venus and Ares and Hermes fast 
 darting afar, 
 
 For Apollo with Muses and Graces, the exquisite chil- 
 dren of art^ 
 
 And the sense of the lovely in Nature as shown in a 
 myriad gods, 
 
THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 
 
 All these are just hovering around us awaiting a place 
 
 in our hearts, 
 Not as wearied-out forms of a worship which faded 
 
 long ages ago. 
 But as the fresh life of all worship, renewed in Mars' 
 
 faith in himself, 
 The man who has risen to Greatness was never yet 
 
 wanting in gods. 
 
 Do your hearts enter into my meaning, ye thinkers who 
 
 list to my song ? 
 Do you feel that we come to religion in quitting the 
 
 vulgar and mean ? 
 A.nd that Man when he lives in the glory of conquest 
 
 and knows he is great 
 Soon learns that the power of crushing the Time-worn 
 
 means this, to be free. 
 Freedom with power creative, greatness with beauty 
 
 and love, 
 Was, is and shall be forever the God-like in spirit and 
 
 truth. 
 And be it in smoke upon Sinai, in temples and statues 
 
 in Greece, 
 
 Or walking by Galilee's waters, the noble is ever a god, 
 Grander than Plato or Hegel, greater than Bacon or 
 
 Compte. 
 
10 THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 
 
 Is faith in a noble endeavor, the power to rise to the 
 
 New : 
 And the scorn of the ancient Egyptian, of Hermes, for 
 
 those who but live 
 For idle self-will and dull pleasure, the million who 
 
 nothing create 
 In the downward-borne elements whirling away from the 
 
 centre of God, 
 In the first of the wonderful chapter long written and 
 
 yet to be writ, 
 
 Which told, and will tell, how the dawning drove dark- 
 ness away from the world, 
 And how the small sneer of the Devil was lost in God's 
 
 infinite smile. 
 
 This is the coming of Zeus, of Jove, the imperial 
 
 lord! 
 And of Juno, his wife and his sister, the greatest are ever 
 
 akin, 
 That man shall find out he is noble, this knowing he 
 
 finds out a god, 
 And the glory of God will be with him when dignity 
 
 blesses his life ; 
 Esculapius teaches this lesson. The purest of blood are 
 
 most free 
 
THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 11 
 
 4 
 
 In strains, without taint of disorder the nearest come 
 
 ever more near. 
 The souls which live Jove-like in calmness, progress in 
 
 perfecting their type : 
 What Satan and folly have bidden will rise in the ages 
 
 to come. 
 
 How shall we see the immortals, and when shall we 
 know they are come ? 
 
 In Greece we behold them in statues, unmoving im- 
 mortals in stone : 
 
 Closed in a book in Judea, frozen and centred in 
 One, 
 
 Blooming again into Many, which flowed from the 
 mythical Three, 
 
 And burst into wide-flashing rainbows of legend and 
 color and song. 
 
 When the wonderful age medieval threw pictures all 
 over the world, 
 
 Not in statues, or books, or in pictures, or churches, or 
 legends, or song, 
 
 Will ye see the great gods of your worship whose foot- 
 steps are sounding afar. 
 
12 THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 
 
 
 
 Ah, no; in yourselves \yill ye see them when Venus 
 
 shall favor your love, 
 And man, fitly mated with woman, believes that his 
 
 love is divine : 
 When Passion shall elevate Woman to something so 
 
 holy and grand, 
 That she the ideal enraptured shall ne'er be a check 
 
 upon man ; 
 Then the children they bear will be holy, and Beauty 
 
 shall make them her own, 
 And Man in the eyes of his neighbor will gaze on the 
 
 reflex divine. 
 Of the God he inclines to in spirit or trace in each 
 
 feature and limb, 
 The lines which the body inherits from souls that are 
 
 noble and true. 
 
 Would thou could 7 st feel in deep earnest how beautiful 
 God will be then, 
 
 When we see him as Jove or Apollo in men who inspire 
 us with love, 
 
 As Jambres and Venus the holy in women, who know 
 not the mean, 
 
 And feel not the influence cruel, of hardness and self- 
 love and scorn ; 
 
THE RETURN OF THE GODS. 13 
 
 Would thou could'st once know how real the presence 
 of God will become, 
 
 How earnest, and ever more earnest, thy faith when thy- 
 self shall be great, 
 
 And from the true worship of others thou'lt learn what 
 is holy in them, 
 
 And rise to the infinite fountain of glory which flows 
 in us all. 
 
 But when shall we see the Immortals? Believe me 
 
 whenever we will, 
 They are near us, around us, within us, awaiting our 
 
 wish and our word, 
 More than thy dreams ever pictured, more than thy 
 
 heart ever dreamed, 
 
 Will pour increasing abundance on him who has free- 
 dom and faith ; 
 Freedom from meanness and harshness, faith in the 
 
 God hood within 
 The ore lies before us in mountains, weVe power to 
 
 change it to gold ; 
 Be to thyself what thou lovest, and others will be unto 
 
 thee 
 What thou wilt. When in God thou believest, near 
 
 God thou wilt certainly be. 
 
[From the Meister Karl. ] 
 
 GHOST-LAND. 
 
 FAIRY MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 All over doth this outer earth 
 
 An inner earth enfold ; 
 And sounds may reach us of its mirth 
 
 Over its pales of gold. 
 There spirits dwell unwedded all 
 
 From the shapes and shades they wore ; 
 Though oft their silent footsteps fall 
 
 By the hearth they loved before. 
 We mark them not, nor hear the sound 
 They make in circling all around; 
 
 Their bidding sweet and voiceless prayer 
 
 Float without echo in the air. 
 Yet, often in unworldly places, 
 
 Soft sorrow's twilight vales, 
 We meet them with uncovered faces, 
 
 Outside their golden pales ; 
 
GHOST-LAND. 15 
 
 Yet, dim as they must ever be, 
 Like ships far off, and out at sea, 
 With the sun upon their sails. 
 
 And he who once hath raised his eyes 
 
 Oh, soul of love, to thee ! 
 From -that day forth, beneath the skies, 
 
 No other sight can see. 
 
WOMAN'S WILL. 
 
 Con la muger y el dinero, 
 No te buries, companero. 
 
 MANY a charm is round thee, 
 
 Many a spell hath bound thee, 
 Though awhile I'll give thee leave to range. 
 
 Soon, thy wild flight over, 
 
 Soon, no more a lover, 
 Back thou'lt fly and never dare to change. 
 
 If thou wilt, go, flatter 
 
 Here and there to utter 
 Burning words to all, with wanton will. 
 
 But thou can'st not leave me, 
 
 No nor once deceive me, 
 And in chains I hold thee captive still. 
 
 To some love enchanting, 
 
 Every favor granting, 
 Go and sigh I bid thee 'tis in vain ! 
 
 For no woman clever 
 
 Lost a lover ever, 
 When she willed to hold him in her chain. 
 
17 
 
 She who's sure of winning, 
 
 When the game's beginning 
 Throws away of course a stake or two ; 
 
 But when higher aiming, 
 
 Bent on bolder gaming, 
 
 Back they come, and then she holds them true. 
 B 
 
MINE OWN. 
 
 And O the longing burning eyes ! 
 
 And O the gleaming hair ! 
 Which waves around me night and day, 
 
 O'er chamber hall and stair. 
 
 And O the step half dreamt, half heard, 
 
 And O the laughter low ; 
 And memories of merriment 
 
 Which faded long ago. 
 
 And some do call me Wantonness, 
 And some do call me Wine : 
 
 O, they might call me what they would 
 If thou wert only mine ! 
 
 And some do call me Life sweetheart, 
 And some do call me Death : 
 
 And he to whom the two are one 
 Hath won my heart and faith. 
 
MINE OWN. 19 
 
 She twined her white arms round his neck, 
 
 The tears fell down like rain ; 
 "And if I live or if I die 
 We'll never part again." 
 
EYES. 
 
 Eternal eyes of wonder, 
 
 How gloriously they rolled ; 
 
 Like two black storm-lakes under 
 An autumn-forest of gold. 
 
THE LORE-LAY. 
 
 [German, of Heine. ,] 
 
 I know not what sorrow is o'er me, 
 What spell is upon my heart, 
 
 But a tale of old times is before me, 
 A legend that will not depart. 
 
 Night falls as I linger dreaming, 
 And calmly flows the Rhine ; 
 
 The peaks of the hills are gleaming 
 In the golden sunset-shine. 
 
 A wondrous lovely maiden 
 
 Sits high in glory there ; 
 Her robe with gems is laden, 
 
 And she combs her golden hair. 
 
 And she spreads out the golden treasures, 
 
 Still singing in harmony ; 
 And the song has a mystical measure 
 
 And a wonderful melody. 
 
22 THE LORE-LAY. 
 
 The boatman when once she has bound him, 
 
 Is lost in a wild sad love ; 
 He sees not the rocks around him, 
 
 He sees but the beauty above. 
 
 I believe that the billow springing 
 The boat and the sailor drown ; 
 
 And all that, with her magical singing, 
 The Lore-lay has done. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 [German of Heine.] 
 
 Wait, oh wait, impatient sailor, 
 Fast enough my footsteps stir ; 
 
 From two maidens I am parting 
 From Europa and from her. 
 
 Lovely cradle of my sorrow ! 
 
 Lovely tomb of peace to me ! 
 Lovely town, we part to-morrow, 
 
 And farewell, I cry to thee. 
 
 Sacred home, you'll see me never 
 Nevermore where she has strayed ; 
 
 Home, farewell, we part forever, 
 Where I first beheld the maid. 
 
SUNSET. 
 
 Die gliibend rothe sonne steigt. 
 
 [German of Heine.'] 
 
 The sun in crimson. glory falls 
 
 Down to the broad up-quivering 
 
 Gray and silvery ocean- world. 
 
 Airy figures, warm in rosy light, 
 
 Wave-like roll after; while eastward rising 
 
 From autumn-like darkening veils of vapor, 
 
 With sorrowful death-pale features, 
 
 Breaks the silent moon. 
 
 Like sparks of light behind her 
 
 Cloud distant, glimmer the planets. 
 
 Once there shone in Heaven, 
 
 Nobly united, 
 
 Luna, the goddess, and Sol, the god, 
 And the bright-thronging stars in light 
 
 Swam round them, 
 Their little and innocent children. 
 But evil tongues came whispering quarrels, 
 
SUNSET. 25 
 
 And they parted in anger, 
 
 The mighty, light-giving spouses. 
 
 Now in the daytime, in loveliest light, 
 
 The sun-god walks yonder in glory 
 
 All for his lordliness. 
 
 Ever prayed to and sung by many, 
 
 By haughty, heartless, prosperous mortals 
 
 But still by night 
 
 In Heaven wanders Luna, 
 
 The wretched mother, 
 
 With all her orphaned starry children, 
 
 And she shines in silent sorrow, 
 
 And soft-loving maidens and gentle poets 
 
 Offer her songs, and their sorrows. 
 
L. J. SHIELDS. 
 
 "IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND." 
 
 The great and restless ocean rolls 
 
 Resistless on the sand, 
 Yet every wave is measured in 
 
 The hollow of His hand. 
 
 Each separate drop that teems with life, 
 
 Each billow far from land, 
 Or angry "crested-breaker, knows 
 
 The hollow of His hand. 
 
 Help us, O Lord, for faith grows dim ; 
 
 We do not understand ; 
 Our seas of woe sure must overflow 
 
 The hollow of Thy hand. 
 
 Teach us that all are measured there, 
 A sounding deep and grand ; 
 
 There are no depths of grief without 
 The hollow of Thy hand. 
 
IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND. 27 
 
 Each throb of woe, each weary pain 
 
 Of head, or heart, or hand, 
 The long-drawn hours of sickness all 
 
 Are measured in Thv hand. 
 
 These waves can never rise too high, 
 For Thou wilt help us stand. 
 
 Dear Lord, we cast our burdens in 
 The hollow of Thy hand. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 [From Heine.'] 
 
 They loved so well, yet neither 
 Would have the other know ; 
 
 They met as foes yet either 
 For love would life forego. 
 
 They parted, and met never, 
 Save in the dear dream-land. 
 
 They died, and still as ever, 
 They do not understand. 
 
 [From Heine.~\ 
 
 A noble fir tree lonely stands 
 On northern height so cold ; 
 
 He sleeps, all covered deep with snow, 
 And decked with icy fold. 
 
 His dreams are of a lovely palm 
 
 Far in the summer land, 
 That drear and lone all sadly stands 
 
 By rock and burning sand. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 29 
 
 [From Seine.'] 
 
 My songs have all been blighted, 
 How could they live with strife ? 
 
 Thou hast poured a burning poison 
 On the blossom of ray life. 
 
 My songs have all been poisoned, 
 How could they but depart? 
 
 With so many, many serpents 
 And thee within my heart. 
 
 THE LILY AND THE MOONBEAM. 
 
 [From the German.'] 
 
 The moon hangs in the dusky night, 
 
 All silver-clear above, 
 And pours the splendor of her light 
 
 On streamlet and on grove. 
 
 From sweetest dream she rouses up 
 
 The lily, tenderly, 
 And opes its little snowy cup 
 
 To set the fragrance free. 
 
30 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The fairest moonbeam ever seen 
 Glides in that open breast, 
 
 And nestles 'neath the tender screen 
 With thousand kisses pressed. 
 
 Then closes tight the beauteous flower, 
 And holds the wooer fast, 
 
 Who, resting in the lily bower, 
 Finds peace and joy at last. 
 
 Next morning when the shepherdess, 
 With merry, childish zest, 
 
 The lily plucks in eagerness, 
 And clasps it to her breast ; 
 
 Then, when the chalice opened lies, 
 She feels a wondrous pain, 
 
 An unknown longing quickly flies 
 Through every glowing vein. 
 
 Now wandering through the leafy bower 
 She sighs, the livelong night : 
 
 Say ? did the moonbeam in the flower 
 Work out its spell aright ? 
 
SILENTIO. 
 
 Slowly climb the moon-fringed mountains, like a stair- 
 way to the sky, 
 
 Slowly each white cloud ascending seems a soul that 
 passed on high ; 
 
 Summits billowing after summits grander and still 
 grander grow, 
 
 Till they break in awful silence on a glittering strand 
 of snow. 
 
 Silent cataract of summits, stiffened on thy frozen 
 verge, 
 
 Thundering down in deafening silence to thy adaman- 
 tine surge ; 
 
 Motionless, yet grandly moving, seems thy avalanche 
 of stone, 
 
 Silenceniatus be thou everlasting on thy solitary throne. 
 
 At thy base the swirling river chatters idly to the clod, 
 At thy brow thy head is lifted through the veil to talk 
 with God, 
 
32 SILENTIO. 
 
 Prophet-like with mantle folded round thy dread and 
 
 spectral form, 
 Far below thee screams the eagle, far below thee raves 
 
 the storm. 
 
 Greatness lies insphered in silence, littleness to sound is 
 
 stirred, 
 All the grandest things in nature never have been seen 
 
 or heard ; 
 Proving down by printless logic all the science of the 
 
 school, 
 Silence is the law of being, sound the breaking of the 
 
 rule. 
 
 Wind was flourishing its trumpets, but th' embattled 
 
 air is still, 
 Streams were roaring down the gorges they have thrided 
 
 to a rill, 
 Thunder charioted the Heavens, but its rumbling wheels 
 
 have sped, 
 Man was talking to his fellow, but the man grew dumb 
 
 and dead. 
 
SILENTIO. 33 
 
 Far into the past I wandered, paused within its mellow 
 
 clime, 
 Where the Lethean years were crossing at the Jabbok- 
 
 ford of time. 
 Felt the boundaries of being sink around me into 
 
 space, 
 Listened but could hear no echo, looked but saw nor 
 
 form nor face. 
 
 Noiselessly the round creation slowly rose into its 
 
 place, 
 Like the moon at night ascending up the star-sloped 
 
 stairs of space ; 
 To its walls there came no workman, to its towers no 
 
 touch of hand, 
 Without sound like some great palm-tree spreading 
 
 over sea and land. 
 
 What is history? half-blown silence lifting leaf by leaf 
 
 its bud, 
 Be it read by book or battle, be it traced by drops of 
 
 blood : 
 
 Providence the perfect poem of a God whose life is love 
 Set on earth to seeming discord, set to music far above. 
 
 C 
 
34 SILENTIO. 
 
 Silence on the palid face-cloth, silence on the snowy 
 
 grave, 
 Silence on the sleeping city silence far below the 
 
 wave, 
 Silence as of music slumbering on her harp within the 
 
 deep : 
 Sound is but the dream of silence, silence talking in its 
 
 sleep. 
 
 Once my heated soul was looking from the window of 
 
 its hope, 
 And before it lay life's landscape, and the sun was on 
 
 the slope ; 
 
 Far I leaned into the future, from the old into the new, 
 But my breath hath blurred the glass, and stained the 
 
 vision from my view. 
 
 Hear a broken voice within thee struggling with the 
 
 perfect will, 
 Hush it in the strong submission of thy spirit and " be 
 
 still :" 
 Stillness in which thou shalt hear the falling of a lifted 
 
 rod, 
 Stillness in which thou shalt hear the full-orbed whisper 
 
 of a God. 
 
SILENTIO. 35 
 
 Somewhere on this shipwrecked planet, in the mist of 
 
 years to be, 
 In the silence, in the shadow, waits a loving heart for 
 
 thee; 
 Somewhere ! Where art thou, O spectre of illimitable 
 
 space ? 
 Silent sphere without a shadow, silent sphere without a 
 
 place. 
 
 Break, O break this bitter silence, speak unto me once 
 
 again ! 
 Tell me, shall I e'er behold thee ? tell me, do I wait in 
 
 vain? 
 
 my mother ! O my mother ! ship beneaped on foreign 
 
 shore ; 
 Answerless the air around me, answerless forevermore. 
 
 1 shall slumber, but it recks not where my lonely grave 
 
 be made, 
 Whether you and I together in a kindred ground are 
 
 laid: 
 I shall slumber, but it recks not who shall touch me in 
 
 the gloom : 
 Twins that sleep within the cradle are not twins within 
 
 the tomb. 
 
36 SILENT1O. 
 
 All things yet shall work together, and so working orb 
 
 in one, 
 As the sun takes back his sunbeams, when the dial-day 
 
 is done. 
 All things yet shall ripen roundly, and unite and shape 
 
 and climb 
 Into truth's great golden unit in the long result of time. 
 
 Wisdom ripens unto silence as she grows more truly 
 
 wise, 
 And she wears a mellow sadness in her heart and in 
 
 her eyes : 
 Wisdom ripens unto silence, and the lesson she doth 
 
 teach, 
 Is that life is more than language, and that thought is 
 
 more than speech. 
 
 What is truth? Thy jeweled finger points like light 
 
 with swerveless trend, 
 From the Orient of knowledge down the path that hath 
 
 no end : 
 What is truth ? Religion ponders, science strains her 
 
 listening ears 
 Through the fallow of the future break the seeds of 
 
 silent years. 
 
SILENTIO. 37 
 
 Faith is but an idle canvas flapping on an idle mast, 
 If it be not found within thee as the work of life at 
 
 last; 
 Dotaged faith is but a fancy he who waits that dream 
 
 is lost, 
 And his creed a cursed millstone, and his God a chilly 
 
 ghost. 
 
 Very like the soul is sleeping soundly underneath the 
 
 sod 
 Very like the soul is walking softly overhead with 
 
 God- 
 Likelihood alone is certain. Who shall s*peak while 
 
 God is dumb ? 
 Credent doubt is but the shadow of the larger faith to 
 
 come. 
 
 O thou strong and sacred silence, self-contained in self- 
 control ; 
 
 O thou palliating silence, Sabbath art thou of the soul : 
 
 Like snow upon my virtues lie like dust upon my 
 faults, 
 
 Silent when the world dethrones me, silent when the 
 world exalts. 
 
38 SILENTIO. 
 
 Tamper not with idle rumor lest the truth appear to lie, 
 Carve thy life to hilted silence, wrong shall fall on it 
 
 and die : 
 Tamper not with accusation, harvest not what thou hast 
 
 heard, 
 Christ stood in the Court of Pilate, but he answered 
 
 not a word. 
 
 Silence is the voice of spirit, silence is the voice of God, 
 Since He said " Go preach My gospel " he hath never 
 
 spoken word : 
 Many a power since then hath perished, many a charm 
 
 hath lost its spell, 
 But that ever-silent spirit still on earth is ruling well. 
 
 Spoken to but never speaking, dimly felt but never 
 
 found. 
 
 Silence after every prayer, silence after every sound, 
 Can it be we pour our spirits out into a godless air? 
 Can, oh can it be that death shall drift us over to 
 
 despair ? 
 
SILENTIO. 39 
 
 Dips the white sail of my spirit down the trending sea 
 
 of death, 
 
 Silent sea without a ripple, save the ripple of a breath, 
 Moving out for pass or shipwreck without signal, gun, 
 
 or light, 
 To the phantom-pilot rounding on the misty reef of 
 
 night. 
 
 Turn me on my fevered pillow, for the night is turning 
 too, 
 
 I will bolster up my courage, I will see what death 
 can do 
 
 Death whose spectre stalks so coldly. What is death ? 
 (we do thee wrong), 
 
 But life stopping in its singing to take breath for end- 
 less song. 
 
 At the centre of creation lies a spot of summer rest, 
 Where the silent spirit broodeth like a white dove on 
 
 its nest : 
 Round it runs the deep horizon in its golden quiet 
 
 curled, 
 Round it at the wheel of motion spins the fashion of 
 
 the world. 
 
40 SILENTIO. 
 
 Ever after mortal effort, ever after mortal pains, 
 Something to which light is shadow, something unex- 
 pressed remains. 
 
 Ever after human question, ever after human quest, 
 Something farther than the farthest, something better 
 than the best. 
 
 God shall keep the sparkless secret of the silence in His 
 
 heart, 
 Through the crescent years of knowledge, through the 
 
 golden days of art: 
 Silent heart, whose birthless beatings throb so softly in 
 
 their place, 
 That God cannot hear himself in all the continent of 
 
 space. 
 
AAEON BUKK, 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1772.") 
 
 MY MESSAGE-BIKD. 
 
 [From the Round Table.] 
 
 Wing, wing thy flight, my faithful message bird 
 To her I may not seek sh'll welcome thee ; 
 
 Take to her heart this tale which thou hast heard 
 Fall from her lips, so oft alone with me. 
 
 Fly, fly, nor stop to rest thy aching wing, 
 
 'TVill weary not as tires my heart the while ; 
 
 Breathe in her ear that she may bid thee bring 
 Back to my waiting lips a kiss or smile. 
 
 Haste, haste, sweet messenger, take wing and start, 
 And in thy absence think how I must burn ; 
 
 But stay, drop in her breast this throbbing heart, 
 And bring back hers, or nevermore return. 
 
MAEY ISABEL ALLEN. 
 
 KNIGHTS TEMPLAR. 
 
 The Templar-Knights are laid to rest 
 In sign of what they loved the best, 
 Their hands are crossed upon their breast. 
 
 They march no more to Palestine, 
 Nor quaff her purple, sacred wine, 
 Nor watch her glowing suns decline. 
 
 To guard their Lord's beloved fane 
 No more they cross the surging main, 
 Nor redden with their blood the plain. 
 
 We love to turn the storied page 
 And read the battles they did wage 
 In distant mediaeval age. 
 
 To turn to lady's bower they left, 
 Perchance by some wild crag, or cleft 
 In mountain side by lightning reft. 
 
KNIGHTS TEMPLAR. 43 
 
 To see in some ancestral hall 
 Stern armor hanging on the wall 
 And light of romance over all. 
 
 To hear the harper's notes resound, 
 And while the vassals gather round, 
 To list of that far battle-ground. 
 
 But are there left no Knights ? A few 
 Unswerving hearts with purpose true 
 Might right all wrongs, all chains undo. 
 
 Is not Christ's tomb to us as dear 
 
 As though we kept with lance and spear 
 
 Its portals through the changing year ? 
 
 Hath past the golden age of faith, 
 When, with her name on failing breath, 
 Men showed they loved her to the death ? 
 
 No, Faith still lives, and Christ, we see, 
 Must served be far diiferently 
 We fight for all humanity. 
 
44 KNIGHTS TEMPLAR. 
 
 In caring for all souls oppressed, 
 And leading them to peace and rest, 
 We follow still our Lord's behest. 
 
 The Templar once might guard His tomb 
 We guide the pilgrim through life's gloom 
 Towards the Heavens whence He shall come. 
 
 We throw our lance for all mankind 
 
 And he indeed can be but blind 
 
 Who doth not still true knighthood find. 
 
JAIRUS' DAUGHTER. 
 
 The little maid bad died, believing that the Christ would 
 
 come, 
 
 Bringing with His presence healing to her home. 
 And now the Master enters, turns to those who weep, 
 And speaks these words for all the ages, " Death is but 
 
 a sleep." 
 
 And so from death's dark slumber, and with no surprise, 
 Her eyes she opened, hearing Christ say softly, " Maid, 
 
 arise." 
 For this was not a stranger she had listened for His 
 
 feet 
 In quiet expectation, till her heart had ceased to beat. 
 
 And we had dear ones who believed the Master's care 
 Was such, that ev ? n in death they did not know despair. 
 In faith and hope sublime they closed their patient 
 
 eyes : 
 His foot was on the threshold He would say, " Arise." 
 
NIGHTS IN JUNE. 
 
 [From the French of Victor Hugo.] 
 
 In summer when the day hath fled, clad in verdure and 
 in flowers 
 
 Sends the plain full many a mile away, the fragrance of 
 her bowers. 
 
 With eyes half-closed and every sense by lightest mur- 
 mur stirred, 
 
 Transparent is our slumber like the sleep of any bird. 
 
 Then the stars are brighter, purer, and the shadows 
 
 softer lie, 
 And the dawning pale and tender seems to wander 
 
 'neath the sky, 
 Watching all the vague half-lights that tint Heaven's 
 
 distant dome 
 Waiting long and patiently waiting for her hour to 
 
 come. 
 
THE PILGRIM OF ST. JUST. 
 
 Charles V. retired to the Monastery of St. Just, in Estramadura, 
 in the north of Spain, and there ended his days. 
 
 [From the German of Count von Platen.] 
 
 Night falls the storm-winds ceaseless roar 
 Ye Spanish friars open to me your door. 
 
 Let me rest here till the matin -bell 
 
 Shall call to prayer, and the anthem's swell. 
 
 Prepare for me, with pious grace, 
 A brother's dress a burial-place. 
 
 Grudge not a cell to one of royal line 
 The land of half this world was mine. 
 
 This head I offer for the tonsure's shears 
 Hath worn a crown through weary years. 
 
48 . THE PILGEIM OF ST. JUST. 
 
 Imperial ermine graced the form 
 That seeks a shelter from the storm. 
 
 I see Death beckon hear him call 
 And, like my kingdom, into ruin fall. 
 
THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 [From the French of Victor Hugo.'] 
 
 The grave said to the pale blush-rose, 
 
 " What dost thou, fairest flower that grows, 
 
 With mist and dew that water thee ? " 
 The rose looked up and made reply, 
 "What doest thou with those who lie 
 
 Within thy vaults, all hopelessly ? " 
 
 The rose said, " Sombre grave, I know 
 That all these tears of grief must go 
 
 To make my perfume strong and sweet." 
 The tomb said, " Holy souls I take, 
 And of them angel-spirits make, 
 
 To rise one day with winged feet." 
 D 
 
MADRIGAL. 
 
 [From the Italian of Menage to Madame de La Fayette.~] 
 
 Ah, vainly Phillis, wouldst thou ask 
 How long shall last my love for thee ! 
 
 To answer were too hard a task : 
 
 Who knows when death shall set me free ? 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 "DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES." 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 O lovely damozel ! 
 No goblet quaffed beneath the skies, 
 
 Boasts wine I love so well. 
 
 Thy bare, thy beautiful white arm, 
 
 Thy bosom's fall and rise, 
 Thy voice that hath such power to charm, 
 
 But O thine eyes, thine eyes ! 
 
 Those sweet inebriating eyes, 
 
 Cupbearers to the soul, 
 Work in me stronger spell than lies, 
 
 Within the dizzy boAvl. 
 
 O deep exhilarating thrill 
 
 That warms me to the heart, 
 Go, reveler, haste fresh cups to fill, 
 
 This draught will not depart. 
 
52 "DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES/' 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 O lovely damozel ! 
 And let me feel my spirit rise, 
 
 Upon the working spell. 
 
AMELIA VAN DEE VEER. 
 
 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 All through the slowly-gliding afternoon, 
 Under the wide, blue wonder of the June, 
 That like the motherlook in some fair face, 
 Broods over it with gentle warmth and grace, 
 Stirred only here and there by passing feet, 
 Drowses and dreams the pleasant village street 
 
 Silent and cool like a cathedral aisle, 
 And rich mosaics wrought of sunbeams' smile, 
 And shadows' tender gloom pave the long way ; 
 Now and then a wood-robin's ringing lay 
 Floats through the silence, as if echoes fell 
 Across still waters from a distant bell. 
 
 Out beyond where the elms and lindens meet, 
 In dainty clasp above the village street, 
 
54 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 As if fair faces through an open door 
 Looked, and fair hands waved to another shore, 
 The crimson glory of the sunset streams, 
 Wooing one from this lotus-land of dreams. 
 
 Toward the red west the winding pathway goes 
 Thro* velvet grasses, a white line it grows, 
 And all the infinite of Summer sky, 
 And earth's untarnished green about it lie. 
 O perfect hour ! can there be anywhere 
 Bowers where faded leaves and flowers are ? 
 
 All the wide air is fragrant, fresh and still, 
 Yet tremulous with the deep throb and thrill 
 Of holy presence, as if God had stood 
 Here, and pronounced this new creation " good," 
 As in that first fair Summer-time, whose birth 
 The morning stars greeted with song to earth. 
 
 Brimful with evening's dusky red and gold, 
 Like stately urns that ruddy liquids hold, 
 On the hill stands the row of regal pines ; 
 Up and down where a tangle of lush vines 
 Falls from it, lies the path ; shallow and wide 
 Below the brook goes with its languid glide, 
 
THEN AND NOW. 55 
 
 Flushed rosily, like a child's face in sleep ; 
 Under the arched bridge pools lie clear and deep 
 In the brown shadows ; beyond, smooth and slow 
 Between the dipping trees the waters flow 
 With white glints ; by the old mill wheel at rest 
 The path goes on into the glowing west. 
 
 Long ago, long ago in another June, 
 
 Young hearts and the young summer-time in tune 
 
 On this same path beyond the shady town 
 
 Two walked, a youth and maiden, up and down 
 
 Together by the brook ; t'was morning then ; 
 
 With little flashing leaps the waters ran 
 
 Chased by light breezes ; how the clear air rang 
 With the gay songs red-breasted robins sang: 
 How the dews sparkled, and the ambient blue 
 And gold of June with glory girt those two ; 
 Their life was in its buoyant, glowing June, 
 Morning so far, so far from afternoon. 
 
 And lightly down the winding path they walked, 
 The youth and maiden, and as lightly talked ; 
 Laughter and banter, jest and repartee, 
 With the brook's chatter blended gleefully, 
 
56 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 Yet the brook had its low, sweet undertone 
 That the vine bending to it heard alone. 
 
 And those two walking in the summer weather, 
 By the bright waters down the path together, 
 Talking so lightly, did not each heart hear 
 Undertones of the other heart anear ? 
 Perchance, and yet, and yet the story old, 
 So many Junes have heard remained untold. 
 
 O memory, how often thou art but 
 Another word for a life-long regret ! 
 To a thing of the past silently grew 
 That blithe June morning, and between those two 
 Pitiless seas came, and no more together 
 They roamed, the youth and maid, in Summer 
 weather. 
 
 One walking down the old path now alone 
 In the rich wine-light, hears like a low moan 
 The whispering brook, and watching dreamily 
 The day's fair dying, thinks Ah me ! Ah me ! 
 That other June, how long, how long ago ! 
 T'was morning then, and it is evening now. 
 
STILLED VOICES. 
 
 We hearken for them in the dreary silence 
 That falls with the long shadows of the years ; 
 
 Woo them, with tones from anguished spirits starting, 
 Tremulous, passionate, with hopeless tears. 
 
 We sit apart in lonely, shady places, 
 
 Listening, listening in the twilight gloom ; 
 
 Sometimes soft footfalls glide in with the shadows, 
 And the stilled voices float across the room. 
 
 They are but echoes stirred in memory's chamber, 
 As if one strayed thro' festive halls, where glee 
 
 And lights and music in white day had vanished, 
 And dreamed he heard the past night's revery. 
 
 We walk in crowded ways, and song and laughter 
 Sweep by with passion undertoned or pain ; 
 
 Yet there's a missing part in this world-chorus 
 We ever wait and listen for in vain. 
 
58 STILLED VOICES. 
 
 We tread the green home-paths worn and familiar, 
 And rest in wonted bowers; but they have grown 
 
 Wintry and wan, palled in a stirless silence, 
 With the familiar voices from them flown. 
 
 There is a blue sea stretching far, relentless, 
 And mocking, with its deep, defiant roar, 
 
 Hearts that on this side wearily are yearning 
 To hear the voices on the other shore. 
 
 There is a blue sky calmly doming over 
 
 Green waves of earth which buried treasures keep ; 
 Lips that spoke pet names once the grasses cover, 
 
 Desolate ones left here above them weep. 
 
 Clasped hands are lifted to that far- off azure, 
 Eyes pleading dumbly, cries that are a prayer; 
 
 Beyond it is the fair celestial city, 
 
 And voices that we miss are singing there. 
 
 But cry and gaze part not those pearly portals, 
 And the far jasper walls no strains float o'er. 
 
 O God ! this longing in the dreary silence 
 For the dear voices stilled forevermore. 
 
PICTURES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Stately and tall and glimmering white, 
 Like a fair phantom trancing the sight, 
 Rises a mansion out of the night. 
 
 Fluttering visions of fair face and form, 
 Soft gala strains, lights mellow and warm, 
 Float on the dark, stream out on the storm, 
 
 Out on the bent form, on the wet hair 
 Of one who shivers shelterless there, 
 Round him, within him, night and despair. 
 
 II. 
 
 Midsummer noon, a road white with heat ; 
 Under the sunbeams' pitiless beat 
 One walking there with faltering feet. 
 
60 PICTURES. 
 
 High garden walls the dusty way bound, 
 Over them thro 7 the still noon's profound, 
 
 To the tired traveller come the cool sound 
 t 
 
 Of crystal fountains plashing their showers ; 
 Delicate wafts from banks of fair flowers ; 
 Low insects' hum from green depths of bowers. 
 
 Outside the walls no light shadow-play, 
 Spice-breathing blossoms, cool fountain spray, 
 Straight, blinding white goes on the highway. 
 
 III. 
 
 Touched with the calm of evening skies, 
 Flushed as if sea-shells' opaline dyes 
 Gleamed through its depths, a fair harbor lies. 
 
 White sails like gulls glide over its floor, 
 Prows gaily turn to homes on the shore, 
 Hearth-lights leap forth from window and door. 
 
 Very far out from harbor and home 
 
 Night closes down, with wild storm and gloom, 
 
 Round a ship driving on to its doom. 
 
PICTUEES. 61 
 
 Over the surge no signal-lights flare ; 
 No sky-rifts show the star-angels there ; 
 No hushing " Peace, be still," thrills the air. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With shine and blue from life's morning skies, 
 Rippled and laughed in hair and in eyes, 
 Dreaming child-dreams, a little child lies 
 
 Dainty and warm in love's soft embrace, 
 Glorified with the sweet, tender grace 
 Shed from a mother's ineffable face. 
 
 Outside the clasp of white arms of love, 
 Unguided, weary little feet rove. 
 It has no rest the innocent dove. 
 
 O, orphaned ones on whose guileless eyes 
 Earth's touch of sorrow so early lies, 
 Angels yearn to you out of the skies ! 
 
 O lonely ones of earth, desolate, 
 Standing unsheltered, outside the gate, 
 Festival halls and joys for you wait ! 
 
62 PICTURES. 
 
 O, ye who faint in hot ways, beside 
 
 Cool fountains where the " still waters " glide 
 
 Through the " green pastures," you shall abide. 
 
 O, hapless ships that far out at sea, 
 
 Through the wild black night drift helplessly, 
 
 Safe in port yet at last you shall be. 
 
NOTHING ELSE TO-NIGHT. 
 
 Softest radiance, saintliest splendor 
 
 Fills the autumn-night; 
 Sky and stream and hill and meadow, 
 
 Teem with silver light. 
 
 Gazing out I know that beauty's 
 Spell has touched this spot, 
 
 But my heart holds other visions 
 And it sees these not. 
 
 Over miles of hill and forest 
 Sees the moonlight lave, 
 
 In a wide, wan solitude, 
 An unshadowed grave. 
 
 Strange upon the marble's whiteness, 
 In the moon's cold gleam, 
 
 Looks to-night the carving of that 
 Dear familiar name. 
 
64 NOTHING ELSE TO-NIGHT. 
 
 my sister ! O my sister ! 
 If I might to-night, 
 
 Through the shimmer of the moonbeams, 
 Catch the angel-light 
 
 Of your face one flitting moment, 
 Such a joy 't would be ! 
 
 1 should know by it you were not 
 Quite, quite lost to me. 
 
 If, from out the throbbing silence, 
 
 Like a faint, far chime, 
 I might hear you whisper, " Darling," 
 
 As in the old time ! 
 
 But there is no voice, no vision, 
 
 Only white moonlight 
 Wrapping shroud-like grave and marble, 
 
 Nothing else to night. 
 
A SABBATH DREAM. 
 
 O holy beauty of the holy hours ! 
 
 A sense of color fused from grass and flowers, 
 
 Of splendor in the sunshine's lavish gold, 
 
 Of sound thro 7 silver harps of silence rolled, 
 
 Is here like a far-off dream memory, 
 
 Or waft of recollected fragrancy. 
 
 But all the long day eyes enchanted turn, 
 
 And all the long day hearts with longing yearn 
 
 To the blue sky-deeps where nor stain nor scar 
 
 Of earthly cloud and earthly shadow are. 
 
 And through the long days' hush those sweet words ring 
 
 " Not having spot or wrinkle or such thing." 
 
 Beautiful skies ! tired eyes rest in your blue, 
 And weary human spirits yearn to you. 
 So near and yet so very far" away, 
 You smile back to us this long Sabbath day. 
 O if so fair this side of Heaven we see, 
 What must the glory of the other be ? 
 
 E 
 
FITZ HUGH LUDLOW, 
 
 (CLASS OF " .") 
 
 TO THE HOME OF ALL LIVING, 
 
 Garden of the quiet dead, 
 
 Seed-ground of Eternity, 
 Many a weary heart and head 
 
 Longs for silence and for thee. 
 Here shall sorrow's hand no more 
 
 Sweep the soul's discordant strings ; 
 And the lyre that oft before 
 
 Thrilled to love's young carolings, 
 Voiceless lies from morn till even ; 
 But it shall be woke in Heaven. 
 
 Island art thou of the Blest, 
 In life's ever-heaving sea ; 
 
 Here earth's weary ones may rest 
 From the billows' mockery. 
 
 Rage ye winds that vex the sky, 
 Chilling summer into death ; 
 
TO THE HOME OF ALL LIVING. 67 
 
 But where those sweet sleepers lie 
 
 Hush your voices to a breath : 
 Kiss the roses till they yield 
 Perfume from the stilly field. 
 
 Heaven's entrance-way thou art 
 
 From beggar's hut and chair of state ; 
 The th robbings of the dying heart 
 
 Are only knockings at thy gate. 
 Other homes may scorn to yield 
 
 Shelter from the bitter rain, 
 At thy doors O burial-field, 
 
 Pilgrim never knocked in vain. 
 On thy breast we yet may fall, 
 Earth, thou mother of us all ! 
 
 Lulled to sleep in thine embrace 
 
 Many a weary babe shall lie, 
 And the chief whose visored face 
 
 Blanched not at the battle-cry. 
 Here no more the bride shall dream 
 
 Of the rose less fair than she, 
 And olive-shaded academe 
 
 Shall fade from Plato's memory. 
 O mysterious place of rest 
 Take thy children to thy breast. 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 Niagara ! I am not one who seeks 
 
 To lift his voice above thine awful hymn ; 
 
 Mine be it to keep silence while God speaks, 
 Nor with my praise to make his glory dim. 
 
 Yet unto thee, shape of the stony brow, 
 Standing forever in thine unshared place, 
 
 The human soul within me yearneth now, 
 And I would lay my head beside thy face. 
 
 King from dim ages of God set apart 
 
 To bear the weight of a tremendous crown, 
 
 And feel the robes that wrap thy lonely heart, 
 Deaden its pulses as their folds flow down. 
 
 What wondrous years are written on the scroll 
 Of thy imperial dread inheritance ; 
 
 Man shall not read until its lines unroll 
 In the great hand that set thy stony trance. 
 
NIAGARA. 69 
 
 Perchance, thy moveless, adamantine look, 
 For its long watch o'er the abyss was bent, 
 
 Ere the thick gates of primal darkness shook, 
 And light broke in upon thy battlement. 
 
 And when that sudden glory lit thy crown, 
 And God lent thee a rainbow from His throne, 
 
 E'en through thy stony breast flashed there not 
 
 down 
 Somewhat of His joy also made thy own. 
 
 Who knoweth but he gave thee to rejoice 
 
 Till man's hymn sounded through the time to be, 
 
 And when our choral coming hushed thy voice, 
 Still left thee something of humanity. 
 
 Still seemest thou a priest, still the veil streams 
 Before thy reverent eyes, and hides thy sight : 
 
 And thine is as the face of one who dreams 
 Of a great glory now no more his right. 
 
 Soon shall I pass away ; the mighty psalm 
 Of thine o'er-shadowing waters shall be heard 
 
 In memory only, but thy speechless calm 
 
 Hath lessons for me more than many a word. 
 
70 NIAGARA. 
 
 Teaching the glory of the soul that bears 
 
 Great floods, a veil between Him and the sun, 
 
 And, standing in the might of Patience, dares 
 To bide His finishing who hath begun. 
 
A LA DAME A VOILE NOIEE. 
 
 As night the rosy-bosomed hills unfolding 
 
 Softens their tracery in his weird embrace, 
 So more ethereal grew the matchless moulding 
 Of thy pure, earnest, spiritual face, 
 Most pensive maid, 
 Beneath the shade 
 Of that strange veil of melancholy lace. 
 
 Art thou an abbess gliding from the chancel 
 Where Eloisa poured her soul and prayed, 
 Unshrouded and revivified to cancel 
 Some debt of Christian charity unpaid 
 In years agone 
 When the midnight tone 
 Of death's cold angel made thy heart afraid ? 
 
 Or art thou but a type of death's own essence ? 
 
 Unearthly beauty whose dark borderings 
 Turn men's hearts chill with horror at his presence, 
 
72 A LA DAME A VOILE NOIRE. 
 
 And make them slaves who timely shall be kings. 
 
 But if a Heavenly gale 
 
 Lifts up the veil, 
 Straightway they're ravished with death 'sinner things. 
 
 Perchance thou art a beautiful temptation, 
 
 Some mystic bodiment of deadly sin, 
 Like her, who in the veil of consecration, 
 Mixed with the orizons of Capuchin, 
 Him nightly wooing, 
 To his undoing, 
 Till to his lost soul Satan entered in. 
 
 Thou art too beautiful Fll look no longer, 
 
 For be thou woman, phantasy or sprite, 
 A spell is coming on me that is stronger 
 Than silence in the watches of the night, 
 For good or evil, 
 From saint or devil, 
 I dare not lift my eyes to read aright. 
 
ODE TO NIGHT. 
 
 O lovely mother night ! 
 Thy breath is cool, 
 
 And on my fevered brow 
 
 I feel it now 
 Like angel's hand dipped in Bethesdan pool. 
 
 O lovely mother night ! 
 Like tired sheep 
 
 Within thy star-watched fold, 
 
 The young and old, 
 The strong and weary shall lie down to sleep. 
 
 The bride whose loved-culled wreath 
 Withered anon, 
 
 More than the jasmine fair, 
 
 Shall slumber where 
 The warrior lies dead with his harness on. 
 
74 ODE TO NIGHT. 
 
 And O how sweet and still 
 That rest shall be ; 
 
 Beneath the shadowy pall 
 That broods o'er all, 
 Expanding into immortality. 
 
PHILLIP PEXDLOO3T 
 
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76 FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime ; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 Thy heart was like a river 
 
 Without a main : 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 But fairest, coldest, wonder, 
 
 Thy glorious clay, 
 Lieth the green sod under. 
 
 Alas, the day ! 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep, 
 The daisies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep ; 
 May their bloom in beauty vying 
 
 Never wane, 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 MANY A YEAK AGO. 
 
 Many and many a time together, 
 
 Many a year ago, 
 By this stream in summer weather, 
 
 Two, wandered slow. 
 But from me too soon she parted, 
 
 Fore'er below 
 Beautiful and broken-hearted, 
 
 Many a year ago. 
 
 Fairer than the flowers I brought her 
 
 Many a year ago, 
 Lies that face upon the water 
 
 That haunts me so. 
 Fairer now than I can fashion 
 
 In Heaven, I know, 
 She, who loved me in her passion, 
 
 Many a year ago. 
 
 Moon and wood and sliding river, 
 Many a year ago, 
 
78 MANY A YEAR AGO. 
 
 With her sigh still seem to shiver, 
 For her young woe. 
 
 Little dreamed I then, fair maiden, 
 I loved thee so, 
 
 Whom I left to sorrow laden, 
 Many a year ago. 
 
J. ADDISON ALEXANDER, 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1826.") 
 
 THE DOOMED MAN. 
 
 There is a time we know not when,- 
 A point, we know not where, 
 
 That marks the destiny of men 
 To glory or despair. 
 
 There is a line by us unseen, 
 
 That crosses every path, 
 The hidden boundary between 
 
 God's patience and His wrath. 
 
 To pass that limit is to die, 
 
 To die as if by stealth ; 
 It does not quench the beaming eye, 
 
 Or pale the glow of health. 
 
 The conscience may be still at ease, 
 The spirits light and gay ; 
 
80 THE DOOMED MAN. 
 
 That which is pleasing still may please, 
 And care be thrust away. 
 
 But on that forehead God has set 
 
 Indelibly a mark, 
 Unseen by man, for man as yet 
 
 Is blind and in the dark. 
 
 And yet the doomed man's path below, 
 Like Eden's may have bloomed ; 
 
 He did not, does not, will not know, 
 Or feel that he is doomed. 
 
 He knows, he feels that all is well, 
 And every fear is calmed ; 
 
 He lives, he dies, he wakes in hell, 
 Not only doomed, but damned. 
 
 O, where is this mysterious bourn, 
 By which our path is crossed ; 
 
 Beyond which, God himself hath sworn, 
 That he who goes is lost ? 
 
THE DOOMED MAN. 81 
 
 How far may we go on in sin 
 
 How long will God forbear 
 Where does hope end, and where begin 
 
 The confines of despair? 
 
 An answer from the skies is sent : 
 
 " Ye that from God depart, 
 While it is called to-day repent, 
 
 And harden not your heart." 
 
 F 
 
TO THE RHINE. 
 
 Lines composed on re-crossing the Rhine at Coblentry. 
 
 I hail thee as an ancient friend, 
 
 And as I cross thy line, 
 My democratic knee I bend 
 
 To greet thee, royal Rhine. ' 
 
 The day and hour when last we met 
 Come o'er me like a dream ; 
 
 As then I saw, I see thee yet, 
 Unchanging, changing stream. 
 
 The rush of waters o'er thy bed 
 Distracts my labouring brain 
 
 Forever dying, never dead, 
 Buried, yet born again. 
 
 What is the secret of thy life 
 What holds thy channel fast? 
 
 Amids't the elemental strife 
 "The earthquake and the blast. 
 
TO THE KHINE. 83 
 
 Why is it that the swollen tide 
 
 Which ever northward sweeps, 
 So warily on either side 
 
 Its well worn station keeps ? 
 
 Why dost thou not, old Rhine, at length 
 
 Burst thy ignoble chains, 
 And mustering all thy mighty strength, 
 
 Submerge th ? adjacent plains? 
 
 Thou art a king among the streams, 
 
 Thou river deep and broad : 
 In regal pomp thy surface gleams 
 
 To man, but not to God. 
 
 Thy full deep current bold and proud, 
 
 In His almighty view, 
 Is but the sprinkling of a cloud, 
 
 A drop of morning dew. 
 
 Though thou shoulds't empty every rill, 
 And drain the neighboring land, 
 
 Thy giant waters could not fill 
 The hollow of His hand. 
 
84 TO THE RHINE. 
 
 The same almighty hand that drives 
 
 Thy current to the sea. 
 Can well control it when it strives 
 
 And struggles to be free. 
 
 And if at times that hand grows slack, 
 And lets thee do thy worst, 
 
 He brings thee still at pleasure back, 
 And rules thee as at first. 
 
 So, when I bend my stubborn knee 
 To greet thee, royal Rhine, 
 
 I render homage not to thee, 
 But to thy Lord, and mine. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 SEA BIRDS, WILD SEA BIRDS ! 
 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds ! 
 Wreckers of the white-capped wave, 
 Wheeling on the winds that rave 
 Off by stormy cliff and cave, 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds. 
 Swooping, dipping, 
 Round the shipping 
 Cradled on the billow's grave. 
 Out upon yon treeless ocean, 
 In its calm and its commotion, 
 Mocking back its restless motion, 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds. 
 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds ! 
 Where the petrel-lightning leaps, 
 Where the wolf-wave never sleeps, 
 Where the eagle-tempest sweeps, 
 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds ! 
 
86 SEA BIRDS, WILD SEA BIRDS. 
 
 Wildly whirling 
 Through the swirling 
 Surges of the yeasty deep. 
 By yon bifurcated gleaming, 
 See ! A ship is sinking, steaming, 
 And upon its mast-tops screaming, 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds. 
 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds ! 
 Hooting at the fowler's dart, 
 Laughing at the angler's art, 
 Scoffing compass, sail and chart, 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds. 
 On the pillow 
 Of the billow, 
 
 Rocked like child on mother's heart. 
 < 
 
 Nor within the forest nested, 
 Far from them upon the crested 
 Wave, sleeps bird so softly breasted, 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds. 
 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds ! 
 So like you with winged haste, 
 Wheels my soul upon her waste, 
 
SEA BIRDS, WILD SEA BIRDS. 87 
 
 Swept by sorrow and effaced : 
 Sea Birds, wild Sea Birds ! 
 And like shadows 
 Eldorado's 
 
 Are the phantoms it has chased. 
 Still that wild, bright sea I covet, 
 With the clear blue sky above it, 
 Land of sea birds, O I love it, 
 Sea Birds, wild sea birds. 
 
MAEY STACY WITHINGTON. 
 
 THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Once more, O lady, let our mirth's wild clangor 
 Ring to the keystone of the midnight sky, 
 
 Then sinking, rouse a thrill of jealous anger 
 In dusty hearts that deep in old tombs lie. 
 
 To-morrow, sweet, may lay us down beside them, 
 To-night is ours crown it with wine and song, 
 
 Teach its dark moments in thy locks to hide them, 
 Bind, witch, these hours to linger with thee long. 
 
 What wild and wondrous note was that went pealing 
 
 Up to the keystone of the midnight sky ? 
 Echo ? What dim and ivied shapes go reeling 
 
 On through the gate where Caesar cometh nigh ? 
 Antonius ! thy country's gods forsake thee 
 
 Not e'en the god of Mirth will longer dwell 
 Where strength and virtue are not. Sleep ! nor 
 wake thee 
 
 From Cleopatra's arms, Dishonor's hell. 
 
THE BLOOMING OF THE CEREUS. 
 
 There came a low tap at my chamber door, 
 
 When o'er Night's back the mighty moon-shield hung ; 
 
 Before Fear's chilly hand stole wholly o'er 
 My heart, the door I swung. 
 
 Lo ! there stood maiden Iris, morning-eyed ; 
 
 How 'frighted Fear then spread his dull bat-wing 
 Kainbow at night ! What word of Jove, I cried, 
 
 Dost from Olympus bring? 
 
 Arise ! Arise ! and haste thee, Caroline ! 
 
 A breath just floated thro' my slumbers dumb, 
 That said : I hold my court, a kingdomed queen, 
 
 To-night, my hour is come. 
 
 The Cereus blooms. "Quick ! by our Lady's grace," 
 Cried Iris, bringing net and tying sash ; 
 
 Then each an arm in arm we interlace, 
 And through the darkness dash. 
 
90 THE BLOOMING OF THE CEREUS. 
 
 Far shone her father's house. Around 'twas sweet 
 As if a sky-borne censer swung down there ; 
 
 Roused neighbors thronged like courtiers fain to greet 
 A kingdom's Jonged-for heir. 
 
 Three hours we watched her growing ever fair, 
 And radiating joy with every breath 
 
 And then we watched her fading, fading Dear ! 
 It seemed a great queen's death. 
 
 O Land ! that blossomed late in earth's long night. 
 
 Thy first bloom drew the wondring nations' gaze ; 
 Shall they, too, see thee, ere the coming light 
 
 Fade as a flower decays ? 
 
A FANTASY. 
 
 [From 
 
 If I awoke some morn, 
 And down the stairs descending, all forlorn 
 Of wonted faces found the world below, 
 No mother's smile, no kiss, no baby's crow, 
 No sister taking up the thread, half-spun, 
 Of last night's talk (some talks are never done 
 
 Outside the door 
 
 If then I wended, seeking soft Lenore 
 Or welcome, stately-sweet of Lady Clare 
 Or stayed my step at gracious Anna's stair 
 Or sought gay Lili for a tilt of words 
 Keen and inspiriting as tourney swords ; 
 
 And here and there, 
 
 For whisper of the wise, smile of the fair, 
 For all gay courtesies, lightsome pleasantries, 
 
92 A FANTASY. 
 
 For the dark splendor of some gorgeous eyes 
 For even thee, soul comrade, if a bare, 
 Blank, very vacancy should on me stare. 
 
 If then should speak 
 
 Some right authentic angel : They you seek 
 All like a dream have vanished : but a dream 
 In truth they ever were ; they did but seem, 
 Phantasmas were they, figments, fantasies, 
 Projections of thy own thought, only these. 
 
 Ah me, alas ! 
 
 If all this grammarye should come to pass 
 I think I should believe him ; should believe 
 Nor would his disenchantment deeply grieve, 
 Nor greatly startle, nor bewilder me 
 Soul-comrade, save, 'twere also told of thee. 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 
 
 ACCORDING TO SHELLEY. 
 
 When the lamp is shattered, 
 The light in the dust lies dead ; 
 
 When the cloud is scattered, 
 The rainbow's glory is fled ; 
 
 When the lute is broken, 
 Sweet sounds are remembered not ; 
 
 When the lips have spoken, 
 Loved accents are soon forgot. 
 
 A PROTEST. 
 
 When the lamp is shattered, 
 The light re-ascends its throne ; 
 
 When the cloud is scattered, 
 The parted rays make one ; 
 
 When the lute is broken, 
 The heart-strings echo yet ; 
 
 When some lips have spoken, 
 Ah ! would that we could forget ! 
 
[Impromptu."] 
 
 Spanish Alcove, Library, Princeton, January 5th, 1879. 
 
 WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 
 
 Cold as the breath of Azrael, 
 
 Without the storm-wind rose and fell, 
 
 And roared and raved, and drove and hurled 
 
 Dead branch upon dead branch, and whirled 
 
 To shreds the dead year's shroud, laid o'er 
 
 Her softly, all the night before, 
 
 By pious care of snow elves mild. 
 
 O shrieking wind ! so fierce and wild, 
 
 Canst thou be he God made last Spring, 
 
 His angel, odor-balms to bring 
 
 O'er earth and sea ? Wilt burst the door ? 
 
 God keep the old ! God help the poor ! 
 
 Within a round white altar burned 
 With vestal heat, that soared and spurned 
 The cold from farthest alcove deep, 
 Where Art and Wisdom lay asleep ; 
 
WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 95 
 
 It carried Summer up on high, 
 Where violet, rose, and primrose lie, 
 In glowing panes that warm the light, 
 And fling it bright on marble white 
 Dark floor, and desk, and earnest brow, 
 Grown pale for love of Thought, I trow. 
 
 Around that altar seemed to sigh 
 
 A far, faint breath of Araby, 
 
 Mild odors from Malayan strands ; 
 
 While from a row of pictured lands, 
 
 I take, down moonlit balconies, 
 
 Clear, graceful founts, that never freeze, 
 
 But, dimpling in glad sun-heat play, 
 
 From Christmas-Tide to Easter-Day. 
 
 Circled by Moorish columns' grace, 
 
 I hear no more the snow- wind's race, 
 
 I see no white and whirling drift, 
 
 Only those calm cathedrals lift 
 
 Their glory in blue Summer air, 
 
 Here costume quaint ; there fancy rare. 
 
 So Art and I together there 
 
 Clasped loving hands while outside rolled 
 
 The din of fiends, Chaos and Cold ! 
 
 Ah ! but they fly, they faint, expire 
 
 Before these angels, Art and Fire ! 
 
THE CONVENT SISTERS. 
 
 An incident related in Montalembert's " Monks of the West.' 
 
 Night upon the convent shone, 
 Kissed the towers of august stone, 
 Down the cloisters deep and wide, 
 Night and peace went side by side ; 
 Tower and crypt, and arch and wall, 
 Night and silence wrapt them all. 
 
 Bears the chilly midnight air 
 Breath of incense note of prayer ? 
 Lauds and incense far uprolled, 
 Safe the golden vials hold ; 
 Back soft wings of sleep have flown, 
 Hark ! Whence is that hollow moan ? 
 From the lone and patient cell, 
 Of poor sister Isabel. 
 
 Her, the holy mother chideth, 
 That her grief too long abideth : 
 
THE CONVENT SISTERS. 97 
 
 Her, the father penance gave, 
 That her heart too fondly clave 
 Bound a fellow mortal's grave. 
 
 Ah ! poor sister Isabel, 
 If 'tis sin to love too well, 
 In a world of wrath and scorn, 
 Better thou had'st ne'er been born ! 
 Work and prayer your grief will calm ; 
 Meek she tries each holy charm, 
 Washes all the long stone floor, 
 Where she walked with Isadore : 
 
 Plucks away rank autumn weeds, 
 Where they sowed glad summer seeds ; 
 Binds alone for Mary's shrine, 
 The wreath she always helped her twine ; 
 Bends above some wayward child 
 Asking questions, quaint and wild ; 
 Hard for fitting answer tries, 
 And thinks how Isadore was wise. 
 
 O ! the blank in Lauds and Prime, 
 Where that voice was wont to chime ; 
 G 
 
98 THE CONVENT SISTERS. 
 
 O ! the dread hush in Compline, 
 Where it should come sweetly in ! 
 But in dreams she hears it hark ! 
 ' Her soul leaps waking in the dark. 
 
 Quick she springs up kneels repeating 
 
 O'er the song just heard the fleeting 
 
 Spirit so to chain in vain ! 
 
 She's gone ! She ne'er will come again ! 
 
 O my love ! What bars may fret thee ? 
 
 What strange pains make thee forget me ? 
 
 Hear, O Lord ! I ask no more, 
 
 But light and peace give Isadore ! 
 
 On the stone she falleth prone, 
 
 On the still air spreads her moan. 
 
 Clear and low, and sweet and full, 
 Breaking through her anguish dull, 
 What is that ? Whose are those eyes, 
 Shining calm, yet eager, wise ? 
 " Understand me, my beloved," 
 Spake the vision, " be not moved." 
 
 "Already I in great peace dwell, 
 But I know not, Isabel, 
 
THE CONVENT SISTERS. 99 
 
 How to enter paradise 
 
 Without thee ; so love arise : 
 
 At thy quickest haste fulfill 
 
 All thy task remaining still ; 
 
 Then come ! For I wait to adore Him, 
 
 Till we two can kneel before Him." 
 
 When the third chill midnight shone, 
 The task of Isabel was done. 
 
E. P. T. 
 
 IGIORNI CHE PASSAN. 
 
 [From the Italian. By a Lady.~\ 
 
 Errante solitario 
 Fra rupe e fra forest! , 
 Le pene mie funesti 
 Qui vergo a racou tar. 
 
 Non tremola una foglia : 
 II vento non respira 
 Solo il mio cor sospira 
 I giorni che passan. 
 
 E della valle tacita 
 In ogni rupe e speco, 
 Mesto risponde un eco 
 Ai lagni delP amor. 
 
 Oh, fosse quello il vivido 
 Accento del mio bene ! 
 Finest i questi pene, 
 Sarebbero nel cor ! 
 
JAMES WADDELL ALEXANDEK, 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1820.") 
 
 O SACRED HEAD. 
 
 O Haupt voll Blut and Wunden. 
 
 [From the German of Gerhardt.~\ 
 
 O Sacred Head, once wounded ! 
 
 With grief and shame weighed down, 
 Now scornfully surrounded 
 
 With thorns, thy only crown. 
 O Sacred Head, what glory, 
 
 What bliss, till then was mine ! 
 Yet, though despised and gory, 
 
 I joy to call thee mine. 
 
 O noblest brow and dearest ! 
 
 In other days the world 
 All feared when thou appearedst ; 
 
 What shame on thee is hurled ! 
 
102 O SACRED HEAD. 
 
 How art thou pale with anguish, 
 With sore abuse and scorn ! 
 
 How doth that visage languish, 
 Which once was bright as morn. 
 
 The blushes late residing 
 
 Upon that holy cheek ; 
 The roses once abiding 
 
 Upon those lips so meek ; 
 Alas ! they have departed ; 
 
 Wan death has rifled all : 
 For r weak and broken-hearted, 
 
 I see thy body fall. 
 
 What thou my Lord hast suffered, 
 
 Was all for sinners' gain : 
 Mine, mine was the transgression, 
 
 But thine the deadly pain. 
 Lo ! here I fall, my Saviour ! 
 
 'Tis I deserve thy face ; 
 Look on me with thy favor, 
 
 Vouchsafe to me thy grace. 
 
 Beside thee, Lord, I've taken 
 My place ; forbid me not ; 
 
O SACRED HEAD. 103 
 
 Hence will I ne'er be shaken, 
 
 Though thou to death be brought. 
 
 If pain's last paleness hold thee 
 In agony opprest ; 
 
 Then, then I will enfold thce 
 Within this arm and breast. 
 
 The joy can ne'er be spoken 
 
 Above all joys beside, 
 When in thy body broken, 
 
 I thus with safety hide. 
 My Lord of life, desiring 
 
 Thy glory now to see, 
 Beside the cross expiring, 
 
 I'd breathe my soul to thee. 
 
 What language shall I borrow 
 
 To thank thee, dearest Friend 
 For this, thy dying sorrow, 
 
 Thy pity without end ! 
 Oh, make me thine forever, 
 
 And should I fainting be, 
 Lord, let me never, never 
 
 Outlive my love to thee. 
 
104 O SACKED HEAD. 
 
 If I, a wretch, should leave thee, 
 
 O Jesus, leave not me ! 
 In faith may I receive thee, 
 
 When death shall set me free. 
 When strength and comfort languish, 
 
 And I must hence depart, 
 Release me then from anguish, 
 
 By thine own wounded heart. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE PORCH AND THE TEMPLE. 
 
 I stand in the porch of a temple 
 
 That rises up out of the night : 
 Its buttress is buried in shadows, 
 
 Its bell-tower is splendored in light. 
 Though I pass not on earth thro' its portal 
 
 Where the throngs of the ages have trod, 
 I know by the signs of its splendor 
 
 That its builder and maker is God. 
 
 The sun like a dim burning porch-lamp 
 
 Is shining in front of thy door, 
 The stars are the lights in thy windows 
 
 That wave their red torches before. 
 And deep down in crystalline caverns 
 
 That the torch of the traveller hath found, 
 The rainbow in rock lies resplendent 
 
 In the star-studded night of the ground. 
 
106 THE PORCH AND THE TEMPLE. 
 
 The flowers swung in rare perfumed censors 
 
 Are breathing thy fragrance to me, 
 The birds are. all singing a music 
 
 That shall clasp its full zone-chord in thee. 
 And everything stands for a prophet 
 
 On the hills that are lifted between, 
 A mark of invisible beauty 
 
 An image of something unseen. 
 
 My soul like a shell that is sounding 
 
 In a strange foreign land of the sea, 
 Sings ever the wonderful echo 
 
 Of the kingdom of heaven in me. 
 And sometimes a faint solemn murmur 
 
 Rolls up on the spirit within ; 
 The echo of life everlasting, 
 
 The sound of its strange, silent din. 
 
 When the red sun bars in splendor 
 
 The curtains that crimson the sky, 
 Its gate like an angry garnet 
 
 Blinds brightly the earthly eye. 
 When I shake off the dust from my sandals 
 
 At the sepulchre's open door, 
 O how with a spotless footstep 
 
 Shall I tread your crystal floor. 
 
THE PORCH AND THE TEMPLE. 107 
 
 O white-towered city of wonder ! 
 
 O beautiful homes of the blest ! 
 My heart though it throbbeth in slumber 
 
 But knocks at thy closed doors for rest. 
 But my thoughts as they throng on thy portal 
 
 Fall down broken-winged in their flight 
 Ah ! only Death's rusty night-key 
 
 Shall open the Palace of Light. 
 
MAEGAEET E. BEECKENEIDGE. 
 
 KNITTING FOE THE SOLDIERS. 
 
 Here I sit at the same old work, 
 
 Knitting and knitting from daylight till dark ; 
 
 Thread over and under, and back and through, 
 
 Knitting socks for I don't know who; 
 
 But in fancy IVe seen him and talked with him too. 
 
 He is no hero of gentle birth, 
 He's little in rank, but he's much in worth ; 
 He's plain of speech, and strong of limb ; 
 He's rich in heart, but he's poor of kin ; 
 There are none at home to work for him. 
 
 He set his lips with a start and a frown 
 
 When he heard that the dear old flag was shot down 
 
 From the walls of Fort Sumter, and flinging away 
 
 His tools and his apron, stopped, but to say 
 
 To his comrades, " I'm going, whoever may stay," 
 
 And was listed and gone by the close of the day. 
 
KNITTING FOE THE SOLDIERS. 109 
 
 And whether he watches to-night on the sea, 
 Or kindles his camp-fire on " lone Tybee," 
 By river or mountain, wherever he be, 
 I know he's the noblest of all that are there, 
 The promptest to do, and the bravest to dare ; 
 The strongest in trust, and the last in despair. 
 
 So here I sit at the same old work, 
 
 Knitting socks for the soldiers from daylight till dark, 
 
 And whispering low as the thread flies through, 
 
 To him who shall wear them, I don't know who ; 
 
 Ah, soldier, fight bravely, be patient, be true, 
 
 For some one is knitting and praying for you. 
 
HOE ACE BINNEY WALLACE, 
 
 (CLASS OF "" 1835.") 
 
 ODE ON THE RHINE'S RETURNING INTO 
 GERMANY FROM FRANCE. 
 
 Oh sweet is thy current by town and by tower, 
 The green sunny vale and the dark linden bower ; 
 Thy waves as they dimple smile back on the plain, 
 And Rhine, ancient river, thou'rt German again ! 
 
 The roses are sweeter, the air is more free, 
 More blithe is the song of the bird on the tree ; 
 The yoke of the mighty is broken in twain, 
 And Rhine, dearest river, thou'rt German again ! 
 
 The land is at peace and breaks forth into song, 
 The hills, in their echoes, the cadence prolong, 
 The sons of the forest take up the glad strain, 
 " Our Rhine, our own river, is German again ! " 
 
ODE. Ill 
 
 Thy daughters, sweet river, thy daughters so fair, 
 With their eyes of dark azure, and soft sunny hair, 
 Repeat ? mid their dances at eve on the plain, 
 " Our Rhine, our own river, is German again !" 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 THE PRAYER OF THE FALLEN. 
 
 God of the bright, unfallen sun 
 
 That stoops to kiss a wretch like me, 
 In the whole world there now is none 
 
 To whom my soul may come but thee ! 
 Though ruined and unclaimed my birth, 
 
 Though fallen all my prided charms ; 
 If ruined, 'tis but for the earth ; 
 
 If fallen, 'tis within thy arms. 
 
 God of the fallen, hear my prayer ! 
 
 By all the wounds in Christ that bleed, 
 O do not leave me in despair, 
 * O do not pass the lips that plead. 
 And thus, though shunned of all I be, 
 
 And thus, though fallen low, I lie : 
 "When we are farthest off from thee, 
 
 Thou never art to us so nigh. 
 
 As the struck eagle on the plain 
 
 Transfixed upon the death-cold dart, 
 
THE PRAYER OF THE FALLEN. 113 
 
 Looks up at the blue sky again 
 
 That but so lately warmed his heart ; 
 
 So the spent spirit here below 
 
 Yearns from its dust to one divine ; 
 
 And O how sweet it is to know 
 That one so lost as I am Thine ! 
 
 God ! that the passion of my love 
 
 Should work in me such lethal spell, 
 As that the noblest gift above 
 
 Sets Heaven to sink me down to hell. 
 O that the genius of my youth 
 
 Should starve for lack of self-control, 
 And in the banquet-hall of truth 
 
 Know but the hunger of a soul ! 
 
 I wonder on this wintry night, 
 
 When gathered for the evening prayer, 
 Whether, though I be far from sight, 
 
 They think of her who once was there? 
 Strange that I should be counted thus 
 
 Because I fell in bolder sin, 
 Since all who walk the world with us 
 
 Carry a fallen soul within. 
 H 
 
114 THE PRAYEK OF THE FALLEN. 
 
 I sought the love of Nature's heart, 
 
 I came, and called her by her name, 
 But she too seemed to stand apart 
 
 And put my sinful soul to shame. 
 I saw the mountains rise on high ; 
 
 Beneath their burnished crowns of snow ; 
 They rose up glorious, but I 
 
 Lay fallen at their feet below. 
 
 I saw the brook within its bed, 
 
 And on its tide the willow tree; 
 But, when it saw my face, it fled 
 
 To hide its picture in the sea. 
 I spoke to birds that sang near by ; 
 
 I wooed them with my softest tone ; 
 They spread their wings upon the sky, 
 
 And I felt fallen and alone. 
 
 The vine, though trampled by the storm, 
 
 And dashed upon the careless ground, 
 May lift again its fallen form, 
 
 And reach, ere night, the top-most round. 
 The very dust beneath my feet 
 
 May set itself on windy wing, 
 To stars along the golden street, 
 
 That light the seraphs as they sing. 
 
THE PRAYER OF THE FALLEN. 115 
 
 But I shall never rise again, 
 
 Though many a wing o'er me be spread, 
 For, far from women and from men, 
 
 I dwell with the unburied dead. 
 For them the Sabbath bells shall ring, 
 
 And prayer be given, O God, to Thee, 
 For them the white-robed choir shall sing, 
 
 But not for me, but not for me. 
 
 O that my Saviour, as he stood 
 
 Among that group of old, would stand 
 By me, and bid, with instant word 
 
 Stone-throwing slander drop it hand! 
 O could I hark that lovely voice, 
 
 That gently spoke to one before : 
 Thy sins are all forgiven. Rejoice, 
 
 O woman go, and sin no more ! 
 
 My mother drove me from her door ; 
 
 My name was silenced for my sin ; 
 My father bid me come no more; 
 
 Father in Heaven, O let me in ! 
 I've wandered in the bitter street ; 
 
 I've slept where dangers nightly roam ; 
 The frost hath marked my bleeding feet ; 
 
 Father in Heaven, O take me home ! 
 
FROM THE BARK OF AN OLD TREE. 
 
 [From a Lady's Album. By a LadyJ} 
 
 E'en as a traveler perchance, 
 
 Engraves his name upon a tree, 
 In hope to win a casual glance, 
 
 And woo remembrance still, when he 
 A distant wanderer may be ; 
 
 Thus have I claimed this page of thine, 
 Be it but reckoned worthy thee, 
 
 And I shall proudly own it mine. 
 
GUI DE PASSION. 
 
 [ From the French. By a Lady.~\ 
 
 N'aimez-vous pas Forage, 
 
 Avec ses bruits lointains : 
 Avec Peclair qui nage, 
 
 Qui flamboie et s'eteint ! 
 N'aimez-vous pas la foudre, 
 
 Et ses roulements sourds, 
 Qui rappelle le poudre, 
 
 Battant les vieilles tours. 
 
 N'aimez-vous pas au coeur, 
 
 Cette voix qui bouleverse, 
 Cette voix du malheur, 
 
 Qui foudroie et 
 Eh bieu ! ces ouragans, 
 
 Ces tempetes de Fame, 
 Tout pour les coeurs ardents, 
 
 Ce que c'est pour Foeil la flamrae. 
 
JOHN MILLEK, 
 
 (CLASS OF "1836.") 
 
 " SHE IS NOT DEAD." 
 
 " She is not dead." Why jesting speak, 
 Great Healer, to this scorning herd? 
 
 Cold as the ashes of her cheek, 
 
 And dead as marble, sounds that word. 
 
 Is not the limner-king at work, 
 Lighting his shadows on her brow, 
 
 And thine own seal the lines that lurk 
 About that sleeping damsel now ? 
 
 Like leopard in his fevered beat. 
 Within an iron compass round, 
 
 Tired fancy, with returning feet, 
 Toils at this empty, mocking sound. 
 
 What means it ? Not that death to thee 
 Is but her entrance back to life ; 
 
 For all the scattered graves shall be 
 Like trophies in a final strife : 
 
"SHE IS NOT DEAD." 119 
 
 Nor that she lives. Death hath no cell 
 
 In darkest dungeon of the sea 
 Where sleeper since our mother fell 
 
 Sleeps more the sleep of death than she. 
 
 The search seems endless. The hot brute 
 That chafes within the cage's walls, 
 
 Makes each dull foot-mark, worn and mute, 
 Note a glance outward as it falls : 
 
 So eager fancy eyes the bed ; 
 
 The waiting group ; the bated breath ; 
 That silent, wondering, pitying dread, 
 
 That bends within thy court, O Death : 
 
 And more ! Oh miracle and shame ! 
 
 The dying daughter's restless hands, 
 And clouding sight, that groping came, 
 
 As questioning where her father stands ; 
 
 Till, faltering, and their purpose lost 
 
 By thicker shadows o'er her eye, 
 Her love's poor, baffled look has cost 
 
 The last and fatal agony. 
 
120 "SHE is NOT DEAD." 
 
 These answer not ! Nor yet the street, 
 Nor yet the shoutings by the sea, 
 
 Nor yet the sound of coming feet, 
 Nor yet the Savior's mastery. 
 
 Christ has all life ; but why should one 
 Thus brave the tyrant in his den ; 
 
 Or go like Esther to the throne, 
 And bring her beauty back again ? 
 
 There stands the question. What in her 
 Forced death that deadly game to miss ? 
 
 And where the pulses that could stir 
 Life in a livid form like this ? 
 
 Sudden, like daybreak o'er the sea 
 In Summer cycle near the Line, 
 
 Light flashes, and the mystery 
 
 Ends at a glance in thought divine. 
 
 Jairus ! Not gentle like the girl ! 
 
 Not powerful like the Incarnate King ! 
 Go hail him ! (proud, disdainful churl !) 
 
 Superb enchanter, life to bring ! 
 
"SHE IS NOT DEAD." 121 
 
 The man who nursed his bigot zeal, 
 The man who prized his haughty line, 
 
 Has forced his envied rank to kneel 
 For worship at a hated shrine. 
 
 There lay Christ's meaning ! When the slaves 
 Came seeking their dishonored lord, 
 
 Mark the strange faith ; 'tis that that saves 
 The daughter by our Savior's word. 
 
 The man who suffered life to wane, 
 
 And death to torture undenied, 
 Watching the ravages of pain 
 
 And weakness at his daughter's side, 
 
 Has dashed the bigot in his strength, 
 And crushed the zealot in his zeal, 
 
 And left the suffering girl at length, 
 Meek, at the Peasant's feet to kneel. 
 
 No paltering now : to the vile dust 
 He brings his forehead and his cry. 
 
 And thronging prayers and groans are thrust 
 Into the ear of sympathy. 
 
122 
 
 Forgot all Jewry ! What their dread, 
 And what their shame about his case, 
 
 And what their cry, " The maid is dead," 
 To him who tastes his Master's grace? 
 
 Upright before the face of men, 
 Humble before the eye of Heaven, 
 
 Mark this grand faith, and take it then 
 For answer that our Lord has given. 
 
 Go, servants, back, nor waste your breath, 
 Nor theirs who say, " Thy child is dead ; " 
 
 " She is not dead ; " her father's faith 
 Stands victor at the maiden's bed. 
 
"WHAT IS HIS NAME?" 
 i 
 
 A SONG OF DEGREES. 
 
 " When they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall I 
 say unto them ? And God said unto Moses, I shall be what I shall 
 be : and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I 
 shall he hath sent me unto you." Exodus, III., 13, 14. 
 
 " I appeared unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob by the 
 name of God Almighty ; but by my name Jehovah (He Shall Be) 
 was I not known to them." Exodus, VL, 3. 
 
 O GOD ALMIGHTY, can there be 
 A grander name than that for thee ? 
 ALMIGHTY GOD ! What lordlier king 
 For fancy on its wildest wing ? 
 
 The universe an infant lives 
 Alone by power thy being gives ; 
 Its myriad ages past, to thee, 
 An instant in eternity. 
 
 Yet God, when beams of mercy broke 
 On Israel under Pharaoh's stroke, 
 
124 "WHAT is HIS NAME?" 
 
 Thou scornedst this proud name to own, 
 And as JEHOVAH wouldst be known. 
 
 Strange title ! Riddle dark and deep 
 The ages in those letters keep : 
 Puzzle nor men nor angels see ; 
 Yet simplest legend, "He Shall Be." 
 
 Not what thoti wast when world on world 
 In spendthrift splendor was unfurled ; 
 Nor afterward, when life and death 
 Hung in the balance on Thy breath ; 
 
 But what " I shall be," such the name 
 Thou gavest Moses to proclaim ; 
 JEHOVAH ! what " He Shall Be " when 
 The God descends to dwell with men. 
 
 Blest legend ! long fulfilled ; for now, 
 In sunlight on the Savior's brow, 
 Gleams the great name of all the three, 
 EMMANUEL, what I was to be. 
 
STRONG DELUSION. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Down at the bottom of the churchly pile, 
 
 Built in by martyrs, 
 
 Lies the hoar relic of a mystic Three, 
 
 Supporting all the faith, 
 
 And watched by tread of sentinels. 
 
 Time cannot change it. 
 
 It roots itself in piety. 
 
 Baptized into our speech ; 
 
 Bright with the colors of the easel's work ; 
 
 Attune with minstrelsy : 
 
 And all alive with ransom, 
 
 And with the throes of earnest prayer ; 
 
 It seats itself for other flight of years : 
 
 Though, like the ' Night ' and l Morning ' in the 
 
 Tomb, 
 
 It lies, half cut, within the rock, 
 And, therefore, as much unseen as seen. 
 
126 STRONG DELUSION. 
 
 And yet a creature of a month or day 
 
 Sets him against the centuries; 
 
 Rejects the doctrine, 
 
 Brands it all a cheat, 
 
 Burns in the candle of his own esteem ; 
 
 And, given up to strong delusion to believe a lie, 
 
 Is fixed as granite, 
 
 Though the world's piety eyes him with pity, 
 
 And knows the foot below him is but sand." 
 
 II. 
 
 So sang the saintliest; but saintlier from the Throne 
 
 Shot forth a messenger, 
 
 And blazoned on the cope 
 
 Of Heaven's high canopy responsive pictures. 
 
 As when coal, sharpened in points, 
 
 Heats the white light, 
 
 And pours its offering on the curtained wall. 
 
 There is a street ; 
 
 And vulgar crowds are hurrying to Calvary. 
 
STRONG DELUSION. 127 
 
 The scum of Galilee has claimed to be a God ! 
 
 Think of it ! 
 
 The Latin world moves on like stars in space ; 
 
 And the Augustan age, 
 
 Crowded with vast events, 
 
 Recks not the history. 
 
 Clio has turned her back ; 
 
 And, afterward, when search is made, 
 
 The lying monks have to invent a record. 
 
 Great Rome, fixed in the zenith of her strength, 
 
 Feels Him like dust upon her chariot. 
 
 And yet this beggar, fainting on the ground, 
 
 Black clots upon His beard, 
 
 And mocking tinsel yet upon His arm, 
 
 Grasps at the sovereignty of worlds ! 
 
 He held a court but now in the Prsetorium ; 
 
 His purple stolen ; 
 
 His sceptre 
 
 Afterward to bear the sponge that ministered to 
 
 His pitiable feebleness ; 
 His crown the weeds clutched from the thorny 
 
 Kedron ; 
 
 His worship mockery ; 
 His service oaths and smitings. 
 
128 STEONG DELUSION. 
 
 Take this hot moment ! 
 
 When, knowing He must be mad, 
 
 They use Him for a soldier's revel ; 
 
 Or, better, when the moon looks out .upon His pain, 
 
 And weary Salem sleeps away her madness. 
 
 Where is the strong delusion ? 
 
 His ? mixed up with murderers ? 
 
 Or theirs, who sent Him to His death, 
 
 Calm in that wealth of faith, 
 
 "Give God the praise; 
 
 We know that this man is a sinner ?" 
 
 A ring of priestly bell, and crumbs of bread 
 Are turned into the flesh of this same peasant ! 
 Some creature doubts it, 
 And a cry of injured faith swells to the very 
 
 Heaven, 
 
 And broad over every land 
 Comes the deep sigh of faith 
 Adjudging martyrdom. 
 Whose is the strong delusion ? 
 
 A pitcher lifts the water from the spring, 
 And pours it on the head of infancy, 
 And a deep life springs forth ! 
 
STRONG DELUSION. 129 
 
 A priest extends liis hand, 
 
 And pardon follows on the spoken breath ! 
 
 A worm crawls blindly from the churchly path, 
 And the whole world, with pity in her eye, calls 
 for his torture. 
 
 There is no end to lessons. 
 
 Another worm sits on the throne, a madman ; 
 
 Makes life a curse ; 
 
 Builds law on perjured wickedness ; 
 
 And saps even laws like that, with hot impatien- 
 
 cies of villany. 
 And yet for years and years 
 The world cries out that he is divine : 
 And bishops lose their sees ; 
 And statesmen put their heads upon the block, 
 Rather than say that there is no divinity in kings, 
 Come there what will. 
 
 And so of other things, 
 
 Mayhap this multiple of God the honored Trinity, 
 
130 STRONG DELUSION. 
 
 Delusion bows itself with all its might, 
 
 And pulls the fane of faith 
 
 Upon its buried worshippers. 
 
 But whose delusion is it ? 
 
 Is it the blind Samson ? 
 
 And all the Lords safe in their might? 
 
 And Dagon on its pedestal ? 
 
 Or is it the shorn victim coming to his strength ; 
 
 And the crushed captive blessing most, 
 
 Just in his saddest hour ? 
 
OUR DEAD, 
 
 [From a Lady's Sketch-Book.'] 
 
 Grief cannot win them back, 
 
 And yet with frequent tears 
 We bring to mind their cherished forms, 
 
 With thoughts of other years ; 
 With love, that neither death nor change 
 Hath power to sever or estrange. 
 
 We cannot blot them out 
 
 From memory's written page ; 
 
 We cannot count them strangers, but 
 Like birds in prison cage, 
 
 We beat against the iron bar, 
 
 That keeps us from those friends afar. 
 
 Oblivion may not hang 
 
 Its curtain o'er their graves ; 
 
 There is no water we can sip 
 Like Lethe's lulling wave ; 
 
132 OUR DEAD. 
 
 But fond affection's moaning wail 
 Breaks from us like the Autumn gale. 
 
 Ye are not dead to us, 
 
 But as bright stars unseen 
 
 We hold that ye are ever near, 
 Though death invades between. 
 
 Like a thin cloud that veils from sight 
 
 The countless spangles of the night. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 AS CHILDREN FOLD THEIR SLEEPY 
 FACES. 
 
 As children fold their sleepy faces 
 
 Within the breast that gave them birth, 
 
 So do the dead in quiet places 
 
 Turn them to thee, O Mother Earth I 
 
 What though the snow shall whiten on us, 
 A warmer robe we never knew ; 
 
 What though the rain fall oft upon us, 
 So fell our mother's tear-drops too. 
 
 I go but not to greet a stranger ; 
 
 To thee our friends for quiet went ; 
 And in thy lap through calm and danger 
 
 Our little life hath all been spent. 
 
 And as we travelling ever nearer 
 
 Touch in the grave God's garment-hem, 
 
 Thou art to us, O Earth, the dearer 
 For all that thou hast done for them. 
 
134 AS CHILDREN FOLD THEIR SLEEPY FACES. 
 
 On thy firm lips forever closes 
 The awful secret kept in thee ; 
 
 And thy calm face no line discloses 
 Of earthly guilt or misery. 
 
 For, be thy grave by land or billow, 
 To traveller in its midnight-inn, 
 
 'Tis but the turning of a pillow 
 To cool the fever-flush of sin. 
 
 I know not to what worlds beyond thee, 
 Those sleeping travellers are bound ; 
 
 I only know the flowers that frond thee 
 Are breathing pity all around. 
 
 Banquet of Rest ! affection's roses 
 
 Shall drink to thee, O Mother Earth ! 
 
 In golden wine where love reposes, 
 The pledge of an immortal birth. 
 
 Against a grave within a garden, 
 
 Rosebuds by night beat out their breath, 
 
 Till to God's knock they seemed to harden,- 
 'Twas Beauty calling unto Death. 
 
AS CHILDREN FOLD THEIR SLEEPY FACES. 135 
 
 Sleep knew that sound, and there immortal 
 Christ rose out of the rock-tombed clod ; 
 
 And in its bright and vine-clad portal, 
 At midnight stood the Son of God. 
 
ELIZABETH HENRY MILLER. 
 
 distant Past ! whose shadows deepening round me, 
 Hide from my view what once seemed bright and 
 
 clear, 
 
 Thou canst not blur her image whose love crowned me, 
 Whose spirit to my soul draws strangely near. 
 
 1 know her quiet form is safely sleeping 
 Beneath the watchful glance of Heaven's eye ; 
 
 I know the sound of my wild, bitter weeping, 
 Cannot disturb her cold serenity. 
 
 And well I know her memory shall linger, 
 
 Unheeding Time's imperious decree, 
 Till solemn Death shall lay his icy finger 
 
 Upon my fettered soul and set it free. 
 
JAMES C. MOFFAT. 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1835.") 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "ALWYN." 
 
 [From Canto /.] 
 
 What recks to tell of birth and long descent ? 
 
 Is not the spirit from Jehovah sprung ? 
 Enough that Alwyn from his childhood bent 
 
 Him to the toils of knowledge, and among 
 
 The free, wild mountains was his fortune flung 
 Almost as free ; and lone and far away 
 
 From all the bias of the babbling tongue, 
 His work conversed with Nature, and his play 
 Was o'er the learned page to linger night and day. 
 
 Where streamlets, rushing down the mountain side, 
 Leap in their giddy haste from lin to lin ; 
 
 And overhanging groves, in solemn pride 
 And mystic twilight, shut their chorus in 
 As with a temple, where the murmuring din, 
 
1 38 EXTRACTS FROM " ALW YN." 
 
 With song of birds, half plaintive and half glad, 
 
 The worship speak of those who cannot sin, 
 He oft would linger till their influence had 
 A kindred feeling wrought, as happy and as sad. 
 
 When summer morning crowned the hills with gold, 
 And stretched their lengthened shadows o'er the 
 plain, 
 
 When early shepherd, hastening to the fold, 
 Or mountain ranges of his wilcl domain, 
 Gave to the breeze his spirit-prompted strain, 
 
 'Twas to the enthusiast boy a draft of new 
 And sweeter life the highest peak to gain, 
 
 Whence all the varied landscape, bursting through 
 
 The lower twilight, lay like pictures to his view : 
 
 The effulgent orb ascending from the deep 
 
 Of nether space, bathed in a flood of light ; 
 The dewy uplands, which all night did weep 
 
 His absence, now rejoicing in the might 
 
 Of his returning, tenderly as bright, 
 Like gladdened Beauty smiling in her tears ; 
 
 The obscure beyond skirts of retreating night, 
 Which still upon the western verge appears, 
 Like half-defeated foe, yet struggling with his fears : 
 
139 
 
 The snow-white mists along a hundred vales, 
 
 Slumbering in silence by their hidden streams, 
 And as the invading day their rest assails, 
 
 Slowly ascending on the advancing beams ; 
 
 While here and there some village coppice seems 
 An island in the flood of fleecy cloud 
 
 Melting away before the warmth which teems 
 From yon triumphant orb, as if the proud 
 Earth had awoke from death and bondage of the 
 shroud : 
 
 The voice of many waters, shining rills, 
 Like living things in wilful song and play, 
 
 Which, by a thousand tiny falls, the hills 
 
 Pour down into the glens ; the ceaseless fray, 
 Where adverse streams do battle for the way, 
 
 Their graver rush united, and the roar 
 Of the fierce cataract, whose hoary spray 
 
 Is Nature's incense-cloud, and evermore 
 
 The distant river's dash upon its rocky shore ; 
 
 And rising with the day the sweeter notes, 
 Which draw their daily being from the sun, 
 
 The lark's clear matin hymn, which downward floats, 
 As if in joy from heaven already won ; 
 
140 EXTRACTS FROM 
 
 The long complaints, which o'er the mountains run, 
 From fleecy flocks descending from their lair, 
 
 And far below, from labors re-begun, 
 The sounds of human life, rising like prayer, 
 Blend into sweet accord upon the throbbing air. 
 
 When Nature, panting with excess of life, 
 
 Beneath the ripe luxuriance of noon, 
 Lavished her wealth on the broad landscape, rife 
 
 With all the offspring of redundant June, ' 
 
 Where sighing groves with murmuring brooks com- 
 mune, 
 Where meadows wave, or fields of ripening grain, 
 
 Vocal with insect being's drowsy tune, 
 Where listless herds bestrew the grassy plain, 
 Would Alwyn quaff the scene, till very bliss was pain. 
 
 But when, for many a long and burning day, 
 The latest cloud had disappeared on high, 
 
 And the white, molten sun pursued his way 
 Across the surface of a brazen sky, 
 Bleaching the earth with unrelenting eye, 
 
 When withering pastures crumpled to the tread, 
 And brooks exhaled had left their channels dry, 
 
EXTEACTS FROM "ALWYN." 141 
 
 With panting herds he to the shelter fled, 
 And looked for Nature's death, as if her source were 
 dead. 
 
 Nor with less awe beheld the Titan war 
 Of the returning clouds, so long exiled, 
 
 Their angry hosts assembling from afar 
 In masses on the low horizon piled, 
 Where glorious light, with darkness reconciled, 
 
 Rested upon their crests, their armor lined. 
 But lo ! they come, swift skirmishers and wild 
 
 Sweep o'er the sky, soon with the ranks combined, 
 
 And distant thunder rolls up solemnly behind. 
 
 And heavy drops fall far apart and slow, 
 
 Each on the sand a momentary stain. 
 The winds leap forth an ambuscade and lo ! 
 
 The forest writhes and tosses as with pain, 
 
 The dust is swept in clouds along the plain. 
 Again the thunders issue their command, 
 
 And freely falls the cool, refreshing rain, 
 Copious, but gentle, and with teeming hand 
 Pours down new stores of life upon the fainting land, 
 
142 EXTKACTS FEOM " ALWYN." 
 
 Ye tranquil summer days, whose breath is balm, 
 And soft as rising of the morning dew, 
 
 How little wot we that the child-like calm 
 Which fills the soul with confidence in you, 
 Is but a truce, the balance nice and true 
 
 Of such stupendous forces deadly foes, 
 Just waiting with the fatal aim in view, 
 
 Ready, when God permits, in strife to close, 
 
 Which shall this solid globe dissolve in mortal throes. 
 
 {From, Canto II.] 
 
 The Theban eagle, in his sunward flight, 
 
 Alwyn pursued with charmed and eager eye, 
 Whether through darkening clouds, eluding sight, 
 
 Or flashing out in evening's richest dye, 
 
 Or in eternal truth's serenest sky 
 He soared in light, wooing the pure desire 
 
 From earth's renown to nobler things on high. 
 Then o'er its ashes mourned the Cean fire, 
 The wreck of Lesbian song, and Sappho's broken 
 lyre. 
 
 How the heart gladdens in its own bright dream 
 Of old .ZEolian and Doric song ! 
 
EXTRACTS FROM " ALWYN." 143 
 
 Bathed in the beauty of that lyric stream, 
 Whose waves alone the history prolong, 
 All nature smiles ; that then were woe and wrong, 
 
 That then were irksome toils and cloudy days 
 We overlook. Like future to the young, 
 
 So 'to the classic taste the past conveys 
 
 Only the poet's world, the magic of his lays. 
 
 The joyous Melos seems to fill the air, 
 The buoyant music of a sunny clime, 
 
 And Elegy, her sister, not less fair, 
 With holy Dithyramb, in her sublime 
 Religious ecstacy, blend with the chime 
 
 Of choral chants, and festive melodies 
 The voice of Hellas, in her golden prime, 
 
 And Ceos, Lesbos, Thebes and Sparta rise 
 
 In Fancy's fairest light to Fancy's dazzled eyes. 
 
 [From Canto VII.'] 
 
 Self-humbled son of God, atoning lamb 
 
 W^ho once for men descendedst from thy throne, 
 
 How shall I praise Thee, sinful as I am, 
 All holy as Thou art? Through Thee alone 
 Is God to man in love and mercy known. 
 
144 
 
 In Thy commands all duty lies enshrined ; 
 
 From beauty's full perfection hast Thou shone, 
 Thyself more fair than form of human kind, 
 And Thou alone hast peace to calm the troubled 
 mind. 
 
 How ill we comprehend Thy word of life, 
 
 And what laborious helplessness we prove ; 
 What wars we wage, what unavailing strife 
 
 Within our souls to take Thy hand of love. 
 
 Not by the path of learning must they move, 
 Not by the light of human wisdom see, 
 
 Who would secure the wisdom from above. 
 Humbler the way, and briefer far must be 
 Faith of the docile heart, which rests alone on Thee. 
 
 What blessed transformations have been wrought 
 By Thy so humble life, upon mankind ; 
 
 Hard-hearted men made tender, word and thought, 
 The once polluted chaste, the coarse refined, 
 The timid valiant, and the wavering mind 
 
 Fixed to one lofty purpose. That which sums 
 Up all the best in human life designed, 
 
 And all the grace that blesses happiest homes, 
 
 Spring up along the path by which Thy mercy comes. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM "ALWYN." 145 
 
 For Thee has Genius wreathed the bay and palm, 
 
 For Thee the sweetest harps on earth been strung, 
 Expectant harmonies of Hebrew psalm, 
 
 And pre-ordained prophetic pseans sung. 
 
 For Thee, before Thy wonderous birth, Thy young 
 And virgin mother raised the adoring strain. 
 
 For Thee the gates of heaven were open flung, 
 And hymning angels, in long, choral train, 
 Issued with glorious song to hail Thy earthly reign. 
 
 A chorus worthy of a heavenly choir, 
 
 A hymn to go resounding through all time, 
 Announced Thy birth in spirit of a higher 
 
 Degree of being, and a holier clime. 
 
 Thy life laborious, suffering, yet sublime, 
 In singleness, severity of aim, 
 
 Though brief, and closed in early manhood's prime, 
 Beyond all measure of mere mortal fame, 
 An epic grander far than mind of man could frame. 
 K 
 
WITHOUT CHRIST. 
 
 O Christ, the world is dark 
 Ghostly dark for me ; 
 
 And life would have no mark 
 But for Thee. 
 
 I know not whence I came, 
 Whither I must go. 
 
 Life wavers without aim, 
 To and fro. 
 
 Nothing seems worth my love, 
 Nothing worth my care ; 
 
 All below, all above, 
 Blank and bare. 
 
 To men my soul would close 
 Her gates, and decline 
 
 Their contact, but for those 
 Who are Thine. 
 
WITHOUT CHRIST. 147 
 
 This weary, hopeless heart 
 
 In loneness would dwell 
 In the furthest, darkest part 
 
 Of her cell. 
 
 And when near to life's brink, 
 
 Would yield what it gave, 
 Without a word, and slink 
 
 Into the grave. 
 
 
 
 There's nothing time can give, 
 
 Nothing I could be, 
 For which 'tis worth to live 
 
 But for Thee. 
 
LUCIA D. PYCHOWSKA. 
 THE BORDER OF THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 [Authoress.] 
 
 Towering heights of IngalPs River, 
 Fir-fringed crests of Mount Success, 
 
 Pine and birch and maple forests, 
 Border of the wilderness, 
 
 Darkening in the evening glory, 
 Hiding in each wild ravine, 
 
 Depths of life, of mystic beauty, 
 Never yet by mortal seen : 
 
 Still ye beckon, beckon ever, 
 
 Saying, " Come, our sister, come ! 
 
 Quit the weary, glaring highways, 
 Seek within our shades a home. 
 
 " Firmly stands each rocky buttress, 
 Bears aloft scant growth of trees, 
 Deep beneath, sweet waters pouring, 
 Mingle music with the breeze. 
 
THE BORDER OF THE WILDERNESS. 149 
 
 Come, O sister, come and rest thee ! 
 
 Thou and we are thoughts of God, 
 Friends alone thou'lt find among us, 
 
 Friends who wield no critic's rod. 
 
 " If thy locks have lost their shining, 
 
 Tresses grey our limbs adorn : 
 If thy brow be sadly furrowed, 
 Wrinkled we ere thou wast born. 
 
 " If the young have ceased to love thee, 
 
 Shun they too our awesome ways ; 
 If thy steps have lost their fleetness, 
 Stand we here these myriad days. 
 
 " Feel'st thy shadow darkening eastward, 
 
 We against the twilight show, 
 But we know the dawn returneth, 
 Wait with us that blessed glow." 
 
HENRY J. VAN DYKE. 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1873.") 
 
 THE WINGS OF A DOVE. 
 
 At sunset, when the rosy light was dying 
 Swift down the pathway of the west, 
 
 I saw a lonely dove in silence flying 
 To be at rest. 
 
 Emblem of peace, I cried, could I but borrow 
 Thy pinions fleet, thy freedom blest, 
 
 I'd fly away from every careful sorrow 
 And be at rest! 
 
 At twilight through the shadows softly falling, 
 Back came the dove to seek her nest : 
 
 In the deep wood from which her mate was calling 
 There was true rest. 
 
 Peace, heart of mine ! no longer sigh to wander, 
 
 Vex not thyself in fruitless quest, 
 There are no happy islands ovet yonder, 
 
 Come home and rest. 
 
HENRY J. VAN DYKE. 
 THE AFTER-ECHO. 
 
 When the long echoes die away 
 Along the shores of silence, as a wave, 
 Retreating, circles down the sand ; . 
 
 When, one by one, with sweet delay 
 The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave 
 
 Have lingered in the crescent bay, 
 Until by lightest breezes fanned 
 
 They float far off into the dying day, 
 And all is still as death, 
 
 Then listen ! Hark !- 
 A slender wavering breath 
 
 Comes from the borders of the dark, 
 A note as clear and slow 
 
 As falls from some enchanted bell, 
 Or spirit, passing from the world below 
 
 That whispers back Farewell. 
 So in the heart 
 
 When, slowly fading down the past, 
 Fond memories depart, 
 
 And each that leaves it seems the last, 
 
152 THE AFTEK-ECHO. 
 
 Long after all the rest are gone, 
 Comes back a well-remembered tone, 
 The after-echo of departed years, 
 And touches all the soul to tears. 
 
LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN. 
 
 (CLASS OF "1881.") 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 
 
 THE VENUS DI MILO. 
 
 [From the Art-Cycle.] 
 
 There is never a path with its thorny way 
 Under heavy burdens our feet have trod, 
 
 But 10 ill bear the prints to endless day 
 Of the bleeding feet of the Son of God. 
 
 M. I. 
 
 Goddess of love, yet marble : warm, yet cold : 
 Speechless, yet speaking from thine earnest eyes : 
 Proud lips in nestling scorn and stern surprise, 
 Wreathing a smile o'er wealth of yearnful mould 
 Bosom whose arching splendors full unfold 
 Slow heaving swells of slumbering sacrifice ; 
 Fair limbs imperious in their draped disguise 
 Shining through trembling spray of ocean old ; 
 Mysterious Goddess ! through thy marble form, 
 Wrought by the throes of toiling centuries, 
 The writhing spirit bursts the lifeless stone ; 
 Through the incarnate passion, deep and warm, 
 The human Infinite transcends the skies, 
 And sits enthroned on the eternal throne. 
 
THE MADONNA DEL SISTO. 
 
 [From the Art-Cycle.'] 
 
 Virgin outwoven of God's prophecies ! 
 Woman of earth-born race and heaven- worn face, 
 Rapt in majestic gladness and sweet grace, 
 
 Stamping fair Christ upon the centuries ; 
 
 Eyes orient with Heaven's mysteries, 
 In frightened joy beaming triumphant praise ; 
 Lips breathing bliss of Christ's dear kiss the trace 
 
 In widening curves of tremulous ecstasies. 
 
 Beauty that baffles art ! Sweet heaven that bends 
 Earth to its knees with higher instincts wrought ! 
 
 Woman, that moulds the life of the wide years ! 
 
 Interpreter of Man ! through thee ascends, 
 Lifting vast worlds unto God's perfect thought, 
 
 Love, the redeeming power that sways the spheres. 
 
CARL GUTHERZ' "ECCE HOMO." 
 
 O rare pale face ! sacredly beautiful 
 With flowing locks of richest auburn hue 
 A crown within a crown whose ringlets strew 
 
 Their silken wealth o'er brow most sorrowful ; 
 
 Fair eyes, from out whose azure pitiful 
 A pleading glory shines through crystal dew ; 
 Sweet quivering lips that breathe a blessing new, 
 
 In silent woe of love most tenderful. 
 
 Lone-splendored Head, that bowed unto the tomb ! 
 Thou risest in thy majesty divine, 
 Victorious o'er thy mighty agony. 
 
 Thou thorn-crowned Christ ! through the bewildering 
 
 gloom, 
 
 Forevermore thy radiant face shall shine, 
 The beacon-light of Immortality. 
 
THE SONG OF THE HELL-SPIRIT. 
 
 I flew to the blossoming earth, 
 
 And sipped of its honeyed flowers ; 
 I played in fierce joy and mirth 
 
 Thro 7 the golden summer hours. 
 I sipped of the lily-bell 
 
 From its white translucent cup, 
 But a red stain on it fell 
 
 And drank all the whiteness up. 
 
 I sat on the sandy shore 
 
 And played with the feathery spray ; 
 I dived 'neath the waste sea's roar, 
 
 Where the sunbeams never stray. 
 But the silver waves grew red, 
 
 Like the blood of some monster slain ; 
 And over their ocean-bed 
 
 Hoarsely murmured their sad refrain. 
 
 I sped through the ebon night, 
 Through the realms of the trembling stars 
 
THE SONG OF THE HELL-SPIRIT. 157 
 
 To the whirling orbs of light 
 
 In their golden orient cars. 
 But the shining mists grew dim, 
 
 While the moon waxed fiery red, 
 And o'er the horizon's brim 
 
 Its baleful effulgence spread. 
 
 I soared till my wearied wings 
 
 Poised high o'er the gates of light, 
 Where the great World-Spirit sings 
 
 Through the darkling Infinite ; 
 But the song hushed to a moan 
 
 That thrilled thro'' the fretted space, 
 And a glistening tear-drop shone 
 
 On a pale and upturned face. 
 
ALAS. 
 
 My heart is sad with waiting, Love, 
 
 Waiting for thee ; 
 My eyes are dim with watching, Love, 
 
 Watching for thee. 
 
 The sunlight fades, the night draws nigh, 
 The stars come forth in the clear sky, 
 I sit alone, alone, and sigh, 
 
 Sighing for thee. 
 
 My heart is faint with longing, Love, 
 
 Longing for thee ; 
 My eyes are worn with weeping, Love, 
 
 Weeping for thee. 
 
 The night winds murmur as they pass 
 Trailing thy name through the long grass 
 My soul cries out, alas ! alas ! 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 
COENELIA PEAKSON. 
 
 SCENE IN A STUDIO. 
 
 [Authoress of " Wreaths and Branches."*] 
 
 A distinguished sculptor destroyed some of his finest works, that 
 they might not fall into the hands of an inexorable creditor. 
 
 'Tis midnight, yet a flickering torch still gleams 
 
 Within the sculptor's studio, whose light 
 
 Gives a new beauty to those forms of grace, 
 
 The emanations of a master mind, 
 
 And called to life by his creative power. 
 
 The artist grasps his chisel, but the glow 
 
 That mantles high upon his brow is not 
 
 The fire of new-born inspiration, 
 
 For Prometheus' self ne'er wore a look 
 
 Of such despairing agony. Oh ! sure 
 
 It were a glorious thing to people earth 
 
 With thoughts made palpable, and chaining thus 
 
 The lightning-fire of heaven, bid it flash forth 
 
 From lip and brow, instinct with Majesty ! 
 
 Yes : Genius is a gift unparalleled, 
 
 But guarded round with fearful swords of flame, 
 
 That foot profane tread not the hallowed ground. 
 
160 SCENE IN A STUDIO. 
 
 But what is this ? Has frenzy seized his brain ? 
 Quick falls the mallet, not with well-aimed stroke 
 To guide the skillful chisel, and perfect 
 The fair proportions. Stay thy hand, rash man ! 
 Comes there no voice from this, the beauteous child 
 Of thy creative thought, which cries, " Forbear !" 
 One hour of madness must not thus destroy 
 The labour of thy ripened years. 
 
 'Tis done ! The shivering marble falls around 
 The woe-bewildered man, who gazes now 
 With tearless eye upon that martyred one, 
 Whose shapeless trunk but seems his agony 
 To mock : yet onward recklessly he goes, 
 And all the beauteous ones that he had loved 
 The Venus fair, the Manes of ancient gods, 
 The bust of heroes, and the dream-like ones 
 With their life's fountain faintly gushing forth 
 From out the stricken rock, at his command 
 All all must perish ! 
 O ruin dire ! yet, sadder still the wreck 
 Of mind, which misery hath wrought. 
 
ELIZABETH THOMPSON SMITH. 
 
 A PARTING WORD. 
 
 Written on her death-bed two hours before she died. 
 
 A parting word if power were mine, 
 What most I vahie should be thine, 
 The brightest gem in diadem 
 
 To deck thy brow, 
 The fairest flower in garden bower, 
 
 Fd gather now. 
 
 The Pearl of Price, that gem should be 
 The thornless Rose, my gift to thee. 
 L 
 
E. P. B. 
 THE VEIL OF THE SPIRIT. 
 
 The face is the veil of the spirit, 
 Worn strangely two worlds between, 
 
 And until at death it be lifted, 
 The wearer shall never be seen. 
 
 We meet, and we talk, and we linger, 
 We mix with women and men ; 
 
 But the soul, after all is over, 
 Makes only a sign now and then. 
 
 
 And the sign is that of a shadow 
 
 Cast through a doubtful screen : 
 Ah ! the only things that we ever see 
 Are the things that are all unseen. 
 
THE TWO CITIES. 
 
 [From Littell's Living Age.~\ 
 
 By the city of the living, 
 
 By its ceaseless toil and tread, 
 So fair and so forgiving, 
 
 Stands the city of the dead. 
 Like twins, in a rocking cradle, 
 
 They lie in the darkness deep, 
 And one is awake with a fever, 
 
 But the other is asleep. 
 
 Side by side rise the two great cities, 
 
 Afar on the traveller's sight : 
 One, black with the dust of labor, 
 
 One, solemnly still and white. 
 Apart, and yet together, 
 
 They are reached in a dying breath, 
 But a river flows between them, 
 
 And the river's name is Death. 
 
 Anon, from the hut and the palace, 
 Anon, from early till late, 
 
164 THE TWO CITIES. 
 
 They come rich and poor together 
 Asking alms at thy beautiful gate. 
 
 And never had life a guerdon 
 So welcome to all to give, 
 
 In the land where the living are dying, 
 As the land where the dead may live. 
 
 And thus the two great cities 
 
 Of the living and the dead, 
 Stand side by side in their shadow, 
 
 And the river flows on in its bed. 
 But the river leans a little 
 
 Under the further brink ; 
 And I love to lean with the river 
 
 To that shaded side and think. 
 
 In one there is soft-winged slander, 
 
 And rumour of windy deeds ; 
 In the other a well-kept secret, 
 
 And a riddle that nobody reads. 
 In one they are bitterly turning 
 
 Their faces in anger away ; 
 In the other they meet for forgiveness, 
 
 Face to face in the blinding clay. 
 
THE TWO CITIES. 165 
 
 In one the lights are burning 
 
 In the window and the street, 
 For a thousand forms returning, 
 
 For a thousand eager feet. 
 In the other the lights of Heaven 
 
 Gleam down through the mist of doubt ; 
 And the virgin stars are shining 
 
 For the lamps that have all gone out. 
 
 O silent City of refuge ! 
 
 On the way to the city overhead, 
 The gleam of thy marble milestones 
 
 Tells the distance we are from the dead. 
 Full of feet, but a city untrodden ; 
 
 Full of hands, but a city unbuilt; 
 Full of strangers who know not even 
 
 That their life-cup lies there spilt. 
 
 They know not the tomb from the palace, 
 
 They dream not they ever have died : 
 God be thanked they never will know it 
 
 Till they live on the other side. 
 From the doors that death shut coldly 
 
 On the face of their last lone woe, 
 They came to thy glades for shelter, 
 
 Who had nowhere else to go. 
 
166 THE TWO CITIES. 
 
 They sought thy quiet slumber 
 
 With a strange and winged haste : 
 As a wrecking ship in the tempest 
 
 An isle, in the billowy waste. 
 They fled to thy sable forest 
 
 As dust is blown by the breeze ; 
 When the little children, frightened, 
 
 Run out of the rain, under trees. 
 
 O city of the Silent ! 
 
 What a world lies in your spell, 
 What an army of pale-face pilgrims 
 
 Encamped in yon white-tented dell. 
 Like the dark room in the household, 
 
 Thick with cobwebs, and mould and rust, 
 And filled with old-fashioned remnants, 
 
 Is thy dark room of the dust. 
 
 Creation is God's cenotaph 
 
 Above Christ's unstoned grave ; 
 Unmarked of shaft or marble, 
 
 Unsung of wind or wave. 
 And 'mid all the glittering planets 
 
 That fling their crowns on space, 
 Earth is the only star that holds 
 
 Their monarch's resting-place. 
 
THE TWO CITIES. 167 
 
 Shall the flower come up forever ? 
 
 And daisy and buttercup 
 Catch part of God's smile off in heaven, 
 
 And never a soul come up ? 
 E'en now they are teaching us thither, 
 
 As nurses teach children to walk ; 
 And I hear their sweet tones, Come up hither, 
 
 And the air is full of their talk. 
 
 And I feel as I fall to thinking 
 
 That my face is dusty with death : 
 I may wash it with sleep for a moment, 
 
 But it settles again with my breath. 
 And I know that I soon shall mingle 
 
 With those whose footsteps are fled, 
 Who dwell in the crowded city, 
 
 The city of the dead. 
 
 O grave! where is thy victory ? 
 
 O death ! where is thy sting ? 
 And what is thy raven shadow 
 
 But the shadow of a wing ? 
 And what if the dead hear nothing 
 
 Beneath the closed door; 
 Since we who listen in open space 
 
 If we hear, hear nothing more. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 GRADUATION SONG. 
 
 Ho, students ! come out ! 
 
 Swarm here on this mellow old sod, where for years, 
 In these hours of suspense we have cheated our tears, 
 With hopes, reminiscences, songs, ringing cheers : 
 Hasten out. 
 
 Join your hands, clear the brow, 
 7 Tis the hour for our fond Alma Mater to wean 
 Her young brood of the year ; oh ! how often in vain, 
 Shall we yearn for her wing of protection again, 
 In this nest. 
 
 Dear nest, oh ! how calm 
 
 Will it seem, when life's tempests shall gather and beat 
 Cold, fierce and remorseless : and manhood must meet, 
 Oh, how calm. 
 
 And yet here, where we stand, 
 Aye, on this very sod which we press, unconcerned, 
 How many brave breasts to the future have turned 
 
GRADUATION SONG. 169 
 
 How many have grasped her vain promise and burned 
 For the strife. 
 
 And where are they now ? 
 
 Some petted by fortune, some brilliant, some great, 
 With their names on the roll and their voice in the state, 
 Yet with giiawings unsatisfied, chafing at fate 
 Evermore. 
 
 Aye ! where are they now ? 
 
 Some wasted, forgotten, some outcast, some gone ; 
 Life's solemn procession sweeps endlessly on ; 
 Are we ready to join it? Probation is done, 
 It is late. 
 
 Farewell, boys, farewell. 
 
 May we all meet again in our Summer of life ; 
 In its Autumn, subdued and instructed by strife ; 
 In its Winter of age and repose, ere the knife 
 Cuts us down. 
 
 And, mother, farewell : 
 
 The gusts thro 7 the halls pass away with a sigh ; 
 Your breezes embrace, as the last moments fly, 
 The branches above wave a silent good-bye, 
 So farewell. 
 
CAKOLINE HANNA PAXTON. 
 TO- 
 
 Authoress of a volume of unpublished Poems. 
 
 O were I yonder star, my love ! 
 
 And thou beneath rny beam shouldst stray, 
 How brightly would I smile above, 
 
 To light thee on thy lonely way ! 
 
 O were I, sweet, but zephyr now ! 
 
 Fresh wafted from the balmy west, 
 I'd lay my touch upon thy brow, 
 
 And hover round thy fevered rest. 
 
 O were I yonder bird so gay ! 
 
 And thou within my shaded bower 
 I'd sing my sweetest roundelay 
 
 To soothe thy spirit's troubled hour. 
 
 O were I but a rose so fair ! 
 
 Within thy bosom thus to lie, 
 I'd breathe my sweetest odors there, 
 
 To mingle with thy faintest sigh. 
 
E. A. K. 
 
 [By a Lady.] 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 For ah, did the angel of peace ever roam 
 
 On an errand of love from her beautiful home, 
 
 She hath certainly paused in her holy career, 
 
 And folded her pinions enchantingly here; 
 
 Dear to me are thy shades where no sound may be heard, 
 
 Save the soul-soothing strains of thy harmonist bird, 
 
 For they seem on the soft wing of quiet to come, 
 
 Like ethereal melodies luring us home, 
 
 Faint breathings from heaven, to bid us prepare, 
 
 For peals of celestial minstrelsy there. 
 
 But oh ! when day rests on the portals of eve, 
 As tho' loth the bright scene of enchantment to leave ; 
 While its drapery of gold hurried carelessly on, 
 Fades away, tint by tint, till at last all are gone ; 
 Methinks, 'tis an emblem of life's little hour, 
 Thus perish the hues of hope's loveliest flower, 
 And sigh for repose on that heavenly shore, 
 Where the day is eternal, and change is no more. 
 
ALAMBY MILLEE. 
 
 TO i-. 
 
 Though short the time since our first meeting, 
 And I must now prepare to part, 
 
 Those interviews, so sweet, so fleeting, 
 Have left their impress on my heart ; 
 
 And though thy heart is naught affected, 
 
 And I may soon forgotten be, 
 To love though but to be rejected, 
 
 Is all the fate that's left for me. 
 
 Long years ago, a bird who wended 
 Her way to some far-distant land, 
 
 Upon a river's bank descended 
 
 And left her foot-print on the sand. 
 
 Lightly she rose and left the river, 
 
 And onward kept her thoughtless way, 
 
 The sand she pressed forgets her never, 
 And hard rock bears her print to-day. 
 
173 
 
 Thus will my heart, till its warm beatings 
 Are stilled fore'er in death's cold shade, 
 
 Cherish the memory of our meetings, 
 And keep the impress thou hast made. 
 
ONLY A CURL. 
 
 One little curl of golden hair, 
 
 Yet how many memories centre there ! 
 
 Of deep blue eyes so soft, so bright, 
 
 Now melting in love, now laughing in light, 
 
 Sweet founts whence the crystal tears would flow 
 
 Unbidden at every tale of woe. 
 
 Ah ! why are those bright eyes gleaming there 
 
 In that little curl of golden hair ! 
 
 It brings back cheeks that mocked the rose, 
 And the brow that was whiter than winter snows, 
 And the smiling lip and the dimpled chin 
 That told of the joyous heart within, 
 And the little hand that in his would rest 
 Like the trembling bird in her hidden nest, 
 In those days that knew not of sorrow or care, 
 All these are seen in that curl of hair. 
 
 It recalls the arbor beneath whose shade 
 
 True love was breathed and fond vows were made, 
 
ONLY A CUKL. 175 
 
 And the shadowy lane where oft they roved 
 In the twilight hour by the poet loved, 
 And the dear old house in the distant town, 
 (Strangers have long ago torn it down,) 
 But they can't destroy it, it lingers there 
 In that little curl of her beautiful hair. 
 
 It whispers of love so fond and true, 
 And the look that told him that she loved too, 
 And the sweet betrothal, when from her brow 
 He cut the lock that's before him now, 
 And the fatal day that saw them part, 
 And a black-sealed letter a broken heart. 
 Love and hope, and woe and despair, 
 All are told by that golden hair. 
 
 The present has vanished, the past is here 
 With its scenes so happy, its forms so dear. 
 From out the dark tomb's dismal hall 
 That little curl has brought them all. 
 One little curl of golden hair, 
 And all that he ever has loved is there. 
 
" I AM FREE." 
 
 ({ I am free," laughs the stream, as all rippling and leaping 
 
 O'er rock and through meadow it speeds on its way, 
 Now dancing in sunlight, in shadow now sleeping 
 
 Now foaming and angry, now sparkling and gay. 
 The stream may flow on till it swell to a river, 
 
 May wind as it will, and may say " I am free," 
 But the voice of the oceansurge calls it forever, 
 
 And however it flow, it must flow to the sea. 
 
 " I am free," sings the air, " and no power can constrain 
 me 
 
 To wind in a valley, or flow to a sea, 
 No banks can enclose me, no barriers restrain me, 
 
 Of all of earth's creatures I only am free." 
 But a chain all unseen ever fetters its motion, 
 
 And back to the earth holds its uprising wing, 
 It may sigh thro' the forest or roar on the ocean, 
 
 It may sweep round the earth, but to earth it must 
 cling. 
 
"I AM FKEE." 177 
 
 " We are free," shout the comets, as in their wild courses 
 
 They fly in derision by planets and stars, 
 While out in bright flame stream the manes of the 
 horses 
 
 That hurry through aether their luminous cars. 
 The comet may rush to the verge of creation, 
 
 Far beyond our weak vision its course it may run, 
 But still it obeys the strong hand, Gravitation, 
 
 And again in its course 'twill return to the sun. 
 
 " I am free," cries the spirit of Youth, "on strong pinion 
 
 Where'er my gay fancy may list I can rove ; " 
 But one power still maintains an unbroken dominion, 
 
 'Tis the soul's gravitation the sweet force of love. 
 The sea whose sweet musical voices e'er call me, 
 
 My earth and my sun are all centred in thee, 
 From their sweet strong attractions that ever enthrall 
 me 
 
 I am not, and Oh ! may I never be free ! 
 M 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 But when the idol of my heart's devotion 
 
 I think to seize and bind with memory's chain, 
 
 Striving to reach it, mad with fond emotion, 
 It flies, and I sink back to toil and pain ; 
 
 As some lost swimmer on a stormy ocean 
 
 Looks on the distant lights he ne'er can gain, 
 
 And sinks to death murmuring a once loved name. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 A LOST SOUL. 
 
 I met a soul at midnight far out upon the deep, 
 
 It dreamed not with my dreaming, it slept not with my 
 
 sleep ; 
 A face that I had met on earth, a face that once was 
 
 fair, 
 I saw it, and it wore the wild worn beauty of despair. 
 
 I asked it of the tearless grief that gathered to its eye, 
 I asked it of that calm despair, that death that ne'er can 
 
 die. 
 I asked it whither it was bound, what countries it had 
 
 crossed ; 
 It pointed to Eternity, and only answered Lost. 
 
 Else answerl ess, it floated by upon the midnight air, 
 Till, like the gliding of a ghost its spirit was not there; 
 I rose to follow it I woke O God! that soul was 
 
 mine, 
 The shadow of that dream may fall upon some sleep of 
 
 thine. 
 
180 A LOST SOUL. 
 
 Some startled sleep amid the night of life's entrancing 
 
 ease, 
 That takes the sleeper to its breast, that leaves him on 
 
 his knees ; 
 
 And if it come, O scorn it not, however light it seem : 
 Men have been saved ere this within the passing of a 
 
 dream. 
 
 O to be lost in such a night or wrecked on such a sea, 
 No port, no light, no shore, no God ; naught but 
 
 Eternity, 
 
 To sob along the outer wall forever unforgiven, 
 Whose inner arches ring with all the happiness of heaven. 
 
KOSA. 
 "WE WERE FRIENDS TOGETHER." 
 
 [Authoress of " Poems."] 
 
 We were friends, gay friends, together, 
 
 And a strange, deep gloom is shed 
 On the memories that wither 
 
 Since I feel that thou art dead. 
 Many a dear and cherished token 
 
 Of our youth's too cloudless dawn, 
 Is all ruined now, and broken 
 
 In my heart, for thou art gone. 
 
 We were friends, when joy's light measure 
 
 From life's golden harp was rung, 
 And the ripening fruits of pleasure 
 
 All along our pathway hung. 
 When no glad warm thought repressing 
 
 Heart and soul laughed from our eyes, 
 As the light of God's own blessing 
 
 Laughs in sunshine from the skies. 
 
182 
 
 When the present was too cheerful 
 
 To regret a pleasure past, 
 Or to tremble and be fearful 
 
 That they would not always last. 
 E're we learned that all too often 
 
 In the fairest blossom's cup, 
 (Tho' its tints the south winds soften,) 
 
 There is poison folded up. 
 
 We were friends, when every feeling 
 
 Was as warm and pure and bright 
 As the summer air when reeling 
 
 '.Neath a weight of amber light. 
 And as tuneful as the gushes 
 
 Of some merry little stream, 
 When the wind steals thro' the rushes 
 
 On its dimpled breast to dream. 
 
 In a southern clime we wandered, 
 
 And thro' gardens whose perfume 
 Crowds of regal roses squandered 
 
 From their treasuries of bloom. 
 And where starry myrtles quivered 
 
 'Neath the kisses of the spring, 
 Pure as flakes of snow dissever 
 
 From the white cloud's spotless wing. 
 
"WE WERE FRIENDS TOGETHER." 183 
 
 There by moonlight oft we revelled, 
 
 Or, when morning's orient crown, 
 Like an angel's hair dishevelled, 
 
 From the blue sky floated down. 
 In rich waves of sunlight weeping, 
 
 When magnolia's blooms were seen, 
 Like a flock of white doves peeping 
 
 From their hermitage of green. 
 
 We were friends when smiles of gladness 
 
 Lit thy boyhood's stately home, 
 E're we dreamed that so much sadness 
 
 There in after years would come. 
 Many dwelt at that proud manor, 
 
 Yet no heir is left to claim 
 Or to spread the stainless honor 
 
 Of an old and cherished name. 
 
 But tho' brief our summer meeting, 
 
 Thou art only gone before, 
 And my spirit sends thee greeting 
 
 To that far-off Eden shore, 
 Where the dews of youth still glisten, 
 
 And sweet fancies seem to tell 
 That thine angel ear will listen 
 
 To the voice of my farewell. 
 
ANNIS STOCKTON HOWELL. 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 [Author 'ess. ,] 
 
 In a still and beauteous bower, 
 Gemmed with many a lovely flower, 
 Where the sun is shining brightly 
 Where the zephyrs, playing lightly, 
 Whisper words of tenderest love, 
 From the blessed world above ; 
 There, a prisoner, sigheth one ! 
 'Mid this beauty, she alone 
 Weeps the passing hours away, 
 Longing for the close of day ; 
 There in solitary state, 
 A lone bird sighing for its mate. 
 
 Not for her the sun is shining ! 
 Not for her these flowers twining ! 
 Words of love the zephyrs sing, 
 But no cheer for her they bring ! 
 Who are they that dwell above ? 
 
RECOMPENSE. 185 
 
 What know they of pain or love ? 
 What to her that beauteous bower ? 
 Welcome, blighting wind and shower, 
 Droop your heads, ye flowers of spring, 
 And ye birds, forget to sing. 
 Aught but dirge for her sad fate, 
 A lone bird, sighing for its mate ! 
 
 But lo ! at evening's gentle close 
 
 A nightingale's sweet song arose 
 
 So subtle was this wondrous song 
 
 No human voice could give it tongue 
 
 A voice from regions of the blest, 
 
 A song of weariness at rest, 
 
 Tones from a heart where all is peace, 
 
 And perfect love that cannot cease : 
 
 Where love and care and grief have striven, 
 
 There reigneth now the bliss of heaven ; 
 
 The lone bird only sings so late 
 
 A love bird singing to its mate. 
 
GEOKGE W. BETHUNE. 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 
 
 IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. 
 
 [Author of "Poems."] 
 
 It is not death to die, 
 
 To leave this weary road, 
 
 And 'mid the brotherhood on high 
 To be at home with God. 
 
 It is not death to close 
 
 The eye long dimmed by tears, 
 And wake in glorious repose 
 
 To spend eternal years. 
 
 It is not death to bear 
 
 The wrench that sets us free 
 
 From prison-bars, to breathe the air 
 Of boundless liberty. 
 
IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. 187 
 
 It is not death to fling 
 
 Aside this sinful dust, 
 And rise on strong, exulting wing, 
 
 To live among the just. 
 
 Jesus ! Thou Prince of life ! 
 
 Thy chosen cannot die ; 
 Like thee they conquer in the strife, 
 
 To reign with thee on high. 
 
THE STRIFE OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 Within its downy cradle there lay a little child, 
 And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her smiled, 
 When a strife arose among them a holy, loving strife, 
 Which should shed the richest blessing upon the new- 
 born life. 
 
 One breathed upon her features, and the babe in beauty 
 
 grew, 
 With a cheek like morning blushes, and an eye of azure 
 
 hue, 
 
 Till every one who saw her was thankful for the sight 
 Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever fresh delight. 
 
 Another gave her accents and a voice as musical 
 
 As a spring-bird's joyous carol or a rippling streamlet's 
 
 fall, 
 Till all who heard her laughter or her words of childish 
 
 grace, 
 Loved as much to listen to her as to look into her face. 
 
THE STRIFE OF THE ANGELS. 189 
 
 Another brought from Heaven a clear and gentle mind, 
 
 And within the lovely casketing the precious gem en- 
 shrined, 
 
 Till all who knew her wondered that God should be so 
 good 
 
 As to bless with such a spirit a world so cold and rude. 
 
 Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody and truth, 
 The budding of her childhood just opening into youth, 
 And to our hearts yet dearer each moment than before, 
 She became, though we tho't fondly we could not love 
 her more. 
 
 Then out spake another angel, all brighter than the rest, 
 As with strong arm, yet tender, he caught her to his 
 
 breast, 
 Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mortal 
 
 race, 
 But no shade of human sorrow shall darken her fair 
 
 face. 
 
 Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her tongue, 
 And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips be 
 
 wrung ; 
 
 Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within 
 That form of earth-born frailty ever know a sense of sin . 
 
190 THE STRIFE OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 Lulled in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far away, 
 Where there is no sin nor anguish, no sorrow or decay ; 
 And mine a boon more glorious than all your gifts shall 
 
 be, 
 Lo ! I crown her happy spirit with Immortality. 
 
 Then on his heart our darling yielded up her gentle 
 
 breath, 
 For the stronger, brighter angel, who loved her best 
 
 was Death. 
 
NIGHT STUDY. 
 
 I am alone : and yet 
 In the still solitude there is a rush 
 
 Around me, as were met 
 A crowd of viewless wings, I hear a gush 
 Of mystic harmonies heaven meeting earth, 
 Making it to rejoice with holy mirth. 
 
 Ye winged phantasies, 
 Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, 
 
 Calling me to arise, 
 
 To go forth with you from my very self and fly 
 Far into the unseen, unknown Immense 
 Of worlds beyond our sphere, what are ye ? Whence ? 
 
 Ye eloquent voices, 
 Now soft as breathings of a distant lute, 
 
 Now strong as when rejoices 
 The trumpet in the victory and pursuit ; 
 Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call 
 My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall. 
 
192 NIGHT STUDY. 
 
 I know ye now I see 
 With more than natural sight. Ye are the good, 
 
 The wise departed. Ye 
 
 Are come from Heaven to claim your brotherhood 
 With mortal brother writhing in the strife 
 And chains, which once were yours in this sad life. 
 
 Ye hover o'er the page 
 Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought, , 
 
 Full many a distant age ; 
 Ye love to watch the inspiration caught 
 From your sublime examples, and to cheer 
 The fainting student to your high career. 
 
 Ye come to nerve the soul 
 (Like him who near the Atoner stood when He, 
 
 Trembling, saw round him roll 
 The wrathful portents of Gethsemane) 
 With courage strong ; the promise ye have known 
 And proved, wrapt for me from the Eternal Throne. 
 
 Still keep, O keep me near you, 
 Compass me round with your immortal wings ; 
 
 Still let my glad soul hear you, 
 Striking your triumphs from your golden strings, 
 Until with you I mount and join the song 
 An angel like you 'mid the white-robed throng. 
 
DR. BETHUNE'S LAST HYMN. 
 
 Written on his dying bed. 
 Published for the first time. 
 
 When time seems short, and death is near, 
 And I am pressed by doubt and fear, 
 And sins like an overflowing tide 
 Assail my peace on every side, 
 This thought my refuge still shall be, 
 I know the Saviour died for me. 
 
 His name is Jesus, and he died 
 For guilty sinners crucified 
 Content to die that he might win 
 Their, ransom from the death of sin. 
 No sinner worse than I can be, 
 Therefore I know he died for me. 
 
 If grace were bought, I could not pay, 
 If grace were earned, no worth have I, 
 By grace alone I draw my breath, 
 
 Held up from everlasting death. 
 N 
 
194 DR. BETHUNE'S LAST HYMN. 
 
 Yet since I know his grace is free, 
 I know the Saviour died for me. 
 
 I read God's holy word, and find 
 
 Great truths which elevate my mind, 
 
 And little do I know beside, 
 
 Of thoughts so high, so deep, so wide. 
 
 This is my best Theology 
 
 I know the Saviour died for me. 
 
ANN1S BOUDINOT STOCKTON. 
 Author of "The Triumph of Mildness." 
 
 Excerpt from a Letter addressed to her by Gen. Washington : 
 
 KOCKY HILL, Sept. 2d, 1783. 
 
 You apply to me, my dear madam, for absolution, as though I 
 were your father confessor. If it is a crime to write elegant poetry, 
 and if you will come and dine with me on Thursday, and go through 
 the proper course of penitence, I will strive hard to acquit you of 
 your poetical trespasses. 
 
 Your most obedient and obliged servant, 
 
 GEO. WASHINGTON. 
 MRS. STOCKTON. 
 
 ODE TO WASHINGTON. 
 
 With all thy country's blessings on thy head, 
 
 And all the glory that encircles man, 
 Thy deathless fame to distant nations spread, 
 
 And realms unblest by Freedom's genial plan ; 
 Addressed by statesmen, legislators, kings, 
 
 Revered by thousands as you pass along, 
 While every muse with ardor spreads her wings, 
 
 To greet our hero in immortal song: 
 Say, can a woman's voice an audience gain, 
 
196 ODE TO WASHINGTON. 
 
 And stop a moment thy triumphal car ? 
 And wilt thou listen to a peaceful strain, 
 
 Unskilled to paint the horrid wrack of war? 
 For what is glory? What are martial deeds, 
 
 Unpurified at Virtue's awful shrine? 
 Full oft remorse a glorious day succeeds 
 
 The motive, only, stamps the deed divine. 
 But thy last legacy, renowned chief, 
 
 Hath decked thy brow with honors more sublime 
 Twined in thy wreath, the Christian's firm belief, 
 
 And nobly owned thy faith to future time. 
 
WILLIAM BAKEK. 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1846.") 
 
 MY ROCK. 
 
 I lay upon the rocky strand, 
 
 The Atlantic breaking at my feet, 
 
 And smiled, and laved my idle hand 
 Where sea and rock in thunder meet. 
 
 With cannon peal, through misty smoke, 
 At me its volleyed waters flew : 
 
 Ye harm me, O ye seas, I spoke, 
 
 But as the flowers are harmed by dew. 
 
 It heard, and from its deepest bed 
 It summoned all the boundless main, 
 
 And roaring came ; I merely said : 
 Go, gather for th' assault again ! 
 
 My little life it fiercer sought, 
 
 With hungry howl and angry leap ; 
 
 Its madness was to music wrought, 
 Which lulled me into childlike sleep. 
 
198 MY ROCK. 
 
 I slept, and woke, and laughed to see 
 Such fearful force but spent in foam, 
 
 And scoffed Your wrath but proves to me 
 My Rock is my sufficient home. 
 
WILLIAM W. LORD. 
 
 . (CLASS OF " 1843.") 
 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 
 
 (Author of two volumes of Poems.) 
 
 A RIME. 
 
 [From Oriswold's "American Poets"] 
 
 [Which is yet Reason, and teacheth in a light manner a grave mat- 
 ter in the lore of love.] 
 
 As Love sat idling beneath a tree, 
 A knight rode by on his charger free, 
 Stalwart, and fair and tall was he 
 With his plume and his mantle, a sight to see 
 And proud of his scars, right loftily 
 He cried, Young boy, will you go with me ? 
 But Love, he pouted and shook his head, 
 And along fared the warrior ill-bested; 
 Love is not won by chivalry. 
 
 Then came a minstrel bright of blee, 
 Blue were his eyes as the heavens be, 
 
200 . A EIME. 
 
 And sweet as a song-bird's throat sang he 
 Of smiles and tears and ladies e'e, 
 Soft love and glorious chivalry. 
 Then cried, Sweet boy, will you go with me ? 
 Love wept and smiled and shook his head, 
 And along fared the minstrel ill-bested ; 
 Love is not won by minstrelsy. 
 
 Then came a bookman wise as three, 
 Darker a scholar you shall not see, 
 In Jewry, Rome, or Araby. 
 But list, fair dames, what I rede to ye, 
 In love's sweet lore untaught was he. 
 For when he cried, Come, love, with me ! 
 Tired of the parle he was nodding his head, 
 And along fared the scholar ill-bested ; 
 Love is not won by pedantry. 
 
 Then came a courtier wearing the key 
 Of council and chambers high privity. 
 He could dispute yet seem to agree, 
 And soft as dew was his flatterie. 
 And with honied voice and low congee, 
 Fair youth, he said, will you honor me ? 
 
A -RIME. 201 
 
 In courteous wise Love shook his head, 
 
 And along fared the courtier ill-bested; 
 
 Love is not won by courtesy. 
 
 Then came a miser blinking his e'e, 
 To view the bright boy beneath the tree ; 
 His purse, which hung to his cringing knee, 
 The ransom held of a king's countree, 
 And a handful of jewels and gold showed he, 
 And cried, Sweet boy, will you go with me? 
 Then loud laughed Love as he shook his head, 
 And along fared the monger ill-bested ; 
 Love is not won by merchandry. 
 
 O then to young Love beneath the tree, 
 Came one as young and as fair as he, 
 And as like to him as like could be, 
 And clapping her little wings for glee, 
 With nods and smiles and kisses free, 
 She whispered, Come, O come with me. 
 Love pouted and flouted and shook his head, 
 But along with that winsome youth he sped, 
 And love wins love, loud shouted she. 
 
SALLY CAMPBELL PEESTON MILLEE. 
 
 THE PRINCESS LOUISE: THE MAIDEN ALL 
 FOR-LORNE! 
 
 A blushing rose of England's crown, 
 Mingling with Scotia's thistle-down, 
 Shall tie of race and throne restore, 
 Through the great chief MacCallum More ; 
 And noble blood of Briton born, 
 Shall wed the maiden all for-lorne. 
 
 God shower his blessings on the pair, 
 The Highland lad, the Lowland fair ; 
 And grant the maiden all for-lorne, 
 May'nt marry a man all tattered and torn ; 
 But Love with his own magic art 
 Blend princely natures heart to heart, 
 Forging meantime 'neath rosy smiles, 
 A chain to bind the British Isles. 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 (CLASS OF "1842.") 
 
 Author of " Plays and Poems," " The Legend of the Hounds," 
 "Poems," &c. 
 
 THE BLACK REGIMENT. 
 
 Dark as the clouds of even 
 Ranked in the western heaven, 
 Waiting the breath that lifts 
 All the dread mass, and drifts 
 Tempest and falling brand 
 Over a ruined land : 
 So still and orderly, 
 Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
 Waiting the great event, 
 Stands the Black Regiment. 
 
 Down the long, dusky line 
 Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine 
 And the bright bayonet, 
 Bristling, and firmly set, 
 
204 THE BLACK REGIMENT. 
 
 Flashed with a purpose grand 
 Long e're the sharp command 
 Told them their time had come, 
 Told them what work was sent 
 For the Black Regiment. 
 
 " Now " the flag-sergeant cried ! 
 " Though death and hell betide, 
 Let the whole nation see 
 If we are fit to be 
 Free in this land : or bound 
 Down, like the whining hound 
 Bound with red stripes of pain 
 In our old chains again ! " 
 O ! what a shout there went 
 From the Black Regiment ! 
 
 " Charge ! " Trump and drum awoke 
 Onward the bondmen broke : 
 Bayonet and sabre-stroke 
 Vainly opposed their rush 
 Through the wild battle crush, 
 With but one thought aflush 
 Driving their lords like chaff, 
 In the gun's mouth they laugh, 
 
THE BLACK REGIMENT. 205 
 
 Or at the slippery brands 
 Leaping with slippery hands ; 
 Down they tear man and horse, 
 Down in their awful course, 
 Trampling with bloody heel 
 Over the crashing steel, 
 All their eyes forward bent, 
 Rushed the black Regiment. 
 
 " Freedom !" their battle-cry, 
 " Freedom ! or leave to die." 
 Ah ! and they meant the word, 
 Not as with us 'tis heard, 
 Not a mere party shout, 
 They gave their spirits out, 
 Trusted the end to God, 
 And on the gory sod 
 Rolled in triumphant blood ; 
 Glad to strike one free blow, 
 Whether for weal or woe ; 
 Glad to breathe one free breath, 
 Though on the lips of death ; 
 Praying, alas, in vain, 
 That they might fall again, 
 So they could once more see 
 That burst to Liberty 
 
206 THE BLACK REGIMENT. 
 
 This was what -Freedom meant 
 To the Black Regiment. 
 
 Hundreds on hundreds fell, 
 But they are resting well ; 
 Scourges and shackles strong 
 Never shall do them wrong. 
 O to the living few 
 Soldier, be just, be true! 
 Hail them as comrades tried ; 
 Fight with them side by side ; 
 Never, in field or tent, 
 Scorn the Black Regiment. 
 
DIRGE FOE A SOLDIER. 
 
 To Gen. Phil. Kearney. Killed Sept, 1st, 1862. 
 
 Close his eyes, his work is done ! 
 
 What to him is friend or foeman, 
 Rise of moon or set of sun, 
 
 Hand of man or kiss of woman ? 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ; 
 What cares he? He cannot know 
 Lay him low. 
 
 As man may. he fought his fight, 
 Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
 
 Let him sleep in solemn night, 
 Sleep, forever and forever. 
 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 
 In the clover or the snow ; 
 
 What cares he ? He cannot know 
 Lay him low. 
 
208 DIRGE FOB A SOLDIER. 
 
 Fold him in his country's stars, 
 Roll the drum and fire the volley, 
 
 What to him are all earth's wars, 
 What but death-bemocking folly ? 
 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 
 In the clover or the snow ; 
 
 What cares he ? He cannot know 
 Lay him low. 
 
 Leave him to God's watchful eye ; 
 
 Trust him to the Hand that made him ; 
 Mortal love weeps idly by ; 
 
 God alone hath power to aid him. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ; 
 What cares he ? He cannot know 
 Lay him low. 
 
CAKKIE LOUISE HAGEMAN. 
 BEAUTIFUL SUNLIGHT. 
 
 Beautiful sunlight! Shadow of God, 
 Gleam from the sky where the glorified trod, 
 Still shining as once over Eden it shone, 
 Glory swept down from the great golden throne. 
 
 Beautiful sunlight ! How dreary the day 
 Without thy bright spangles, like children at play, 
 Filling the sorrowful households of earth 
 With flame-winged angels of heavenly birth. 
 
 Beautiful sunlight ! How deftly thy hand 
 Like an artist is painting the sky and the land ; 
 Now crimsoning the swift cloud with roseate hue, 
 Now chasing the rainbow in orange and blue. 
 
 Now opening the lily, now touching the star, 
 Now brightening the dream of the distance afar, 
 Now washing the windows of night with its wave, 
 Now decking with beauty the gloom of the grave. 
 
 o 
 
210 BEAUTIFUL SUNLIGHT. 
 
 Thou walkest like God through the dust and the rain, 
 But thy silver-tipped sandals catch never a stain, 
 And though tempest and shadow wear over thy face, 
 It shows not a wrinkle, it bears not a trace. 
 
 O Light ! what is light to the eyes of the blind 
 
 But a darkness whose pathway no traveller can find? 
 
 And what is the light of thy spirit to thee, 
 
 If that light be but darkness, how dark it must be ! 
 
 O Father of lights, open thou these sealed eyes ! 
 As windows in summer to stars in the skies ; 
 To the beautiful prophecies shining on high, 
 "Show us the Father" and then we will die. 
 
TO A LOST CANARY. 
 
 Whither are thou fled, my birdie, 
 
 Whither wings thy way ? 
 By the forest or the river, 
 
 O'er the ocean's spray ? 
 Whither art thou fled, my birdie, 
 
 Little birdie, say ? 
 
 Can it be, my pet canary, 
 
 Of the plumaged breast, 
 Flitting like a yellow sunbeam 
 
 From the saffron west, 
 Pines among dull-feathered woodsters 
 
 In a common nest ? 
 
 O'er thy head perchance there hovers 
 
 Hawk of angry sky ; 
 On thee now, mayhap, the fowler 
 
 Fasteneth his eye ; 
 Wherefore didst thou leave thy mistress, 
 
 Wherefore didst thou fly? 
 
212 TO A LOST CANARY. 
 
 Ah ! thou'rt not the only nestling 
 That hath flown from me, 
 
 Other friends as fair and lovely 
 Left me lone like thee ; 
 
 And I know not, O I know not 
 Wlieresoe'er they be. 
 
 But I know in yon bright Heaven, 
 
 Far beyond the west, 
 Lie .the mild Canary Islands, 
 
 Islands of the Blest ; 
 And some day I too si i all fly 
 
 Away and be at rest. 
 
GEOEGE L. RAYMOND. 
 
 (CLASS OF " ".) 
 
 Author of " Colony Ballads," "Hadyn," 
 " Life Below," &c. 
 
 NOTES FROM THE VICTORY. 
 
 Ah me! who is ringing those bells? 
 
 Right merry for funeral knells ! 
 If wild winds fell, ring them thro' hell, 
 
 What woe can the demons lack ? 
 My light blew out, in the gust of the rout: 
 
 My boy will never come back. 
 
 Drums too, who bade the drums roll? 
 
 Coarse drums, call ye the soul ? 
 Folks out of breath, shout ye at death ? 
 
 Rend ye the tomb ? Alack. 
 Vain echoe's around, still, under the ground, 
 
 My boy can never come back. 
 
 And guns ! What makes the guns roar? 
 Alas, I thought it was o'er ! 
 
214 NOTES FKOM THE VICTORY. 
 
 Though why fear I. though millions die, 
 Though all of us wear but black ? 
 
 I, too, with the proud have my blood-stained 
 
 shroud ; 
 My boy will never come back. 
 
 Our land ! who wants its long years ? 
 
 They are dimm'd by these drainless tears : 
 All gloom is the way of this masked grief-gay, 
 
 Who groans in their lonely track ; 
 Chill, shivering breast, freeze, freeze into rest; 
 
 My boy can never come back. 
 
THE DESTINY-MAKER. 
 
 She paused, and I who questioned there, 
 Heard that she was as good as fair : 
 And in my soul a still, small voice 
 Did chide because t checked my choice ; 
 But I who had resolved to be 
 The maker of my destiny, 
 I bade the gentle guardian down, 
 And tried to think about renown. 
 
 She passed ; and I who lingered there, 
 
 Saw that her face was very fair ; 
 
 And with my sighs that pride suppressed 
 
 Fluttered a weary wish for rest ; 
 
 But I who had resolved to be 
 
 The maker of my destiny, 
 
 I turned me to my task and wrought, 
 
 And so forgot the passing thought. 
 
 She left : and I who wander, fear 
 There's nothing more to see or hear : 
 
216 THE DESTINY-MAKEK. 
 
 Those walls that ward my Paradise 
 Are very high, now open twice ; 
 And I, who had resolved to be 
 The maker of my destiny, 
 Can only wait without the gate 
 And sit and sigh. Too late ! too late ! 
 
THE EAPIDS AT NIAGARA. 
 
 [Allaire.'] 
 
 Swift water-serpents ; with dread fascination, 
 Upon me unnumbered ye darting] y glide ; 
 
 As strong as the power of some awful temptation, 
 That lures me to merge in its tragical tide. 
 
 When I grew tired of the Cataract's thunder, 
 
 Sank down to sleep 'neath the muffled-crowned mist, 
 
 Why was it, then, that ye rapt me with wonder, 
 On your weird spell that I could not resist ? 
 
 Ah ! in those torrents my life flows before me, 
 Far from its home in the quiet of years ; 
 
 Wrecks of my childhood drift brokenly o'er me, 
 Dashed with strange visions of laughter and tears. 
 
 Once, far away where your swift waters started, 
 
 Calm was their song as their own mountain spring; 
 
 Alas ! how they lie on these rocks broken-hearted, 
 And the song of my life is the song that they sing. 
 
218 THE RAPIDS AT NIAGARA. 
 
 Never before from the days of my childhood, 
 "With such wild adventure on earth did I meet, 
 
 'Till your white tigers sprang at me out of the wild wood, 
 And fell back exhausted in foam at my feet. 
 
 Never, O never, until I had seen thee 
 
 Splintering the light on thy rock-shivered surge : 
 
 Had I thought how like thee with nothing between me? 
 Sports my soul with its sin on Eternity's verge. 
 
 Never, O never, until I had harkened 
 
 By night, where thy ice-crashing cataract fell, 
 
 Had I felt that I heard from the world of the darkened, 
 The hoarse shout of demons flung back out of hell. 
 
 Still on me now thy smooth waters are flowing, 
 Still on me now I can feel thy cold tide, 
 
 Time, O my God! how the minutes are going, 
 Beautiful serpents, how subtly ye glide. 
 
 Rapids your restlessness ever shall haunt rne, 
 Till the dark, deadly current of life shall be run, 
 
 And the calm realm of Rest of heaven shall enchant me, 
 Where the eagle-swan swims on the unsetting sun. 
 
ALFEED D. WOODHULL. 
 
 THE NATIONAL THANKSGIVING HYMN, 
 
 [From the Hymn Book.~\ 
 
 God of the passing year, to thee 
 Our hymn of gratitude we raise ; 
 
 With swelling heart and bended knee, 
 We offer thee our song of praise. 
 
 We bless thy name, Almighty God, 
 For all the kindness thou hast shown 
 
 To this fair land our fathers trod, 
 This land we fondly call our own. 
 
 Here Freedom spreads her banner wide, 
 And casts her soft and hallowed ray ; 
 
 For thou our country's arms didst guide, 
 And lead them on their conquering way. 
 
 We praise thee, that the Gospel light 
 
 Through all our land its radiance sheds 
 
 Scatters the shades of error's might, 
 
 And heavenly blessings round us spreads. 
 
220 THE NATIONAL, THANKSGIVING HYMN. 
 
 When foes without and foes within, 
 
 With threatening ills our land have pressed, 
 
 Thou hast our nation's bulwark been, 
 And smiling sent us peaceful rest. 
 
FANNIE WOLCOTT KANKIN. 
 
 THE BERG AND THE BARK. 
 
 The Ice King set sail from the Berserk's lone land ; 
 
 His ship was an iceberg, unloosed from the strand; 
 
 In the storm and the darkness, its cold shrouds were 
 
 spread 
 On its towering masthead, so spectral and dread. 
 
 Like a chain'd fiend unbound, from the far land of Thor, 
 RushM the Wind from his caves, on that shadowy shore ; 
 And, shrieking in fury, swept on in his might, 
 Attended by one the Black Demon of Night. 
 
 With the roar of the whirlwind, the speed of the flame, 
 Remorseless, resistless, right onward they came; 
 Then, leaping the ice-crusted ship, cold and hoar, 
 Their shriek, wild as Nornor's, rang back o'er the shore. 
 
 As the Wind's frenzied voices swelPd out on the sky, 
 They parted the clouds on its track rolling by ; 
 And soft shone the moon, with a silvery beam, 
 Like a smile on the face of a child in a dream. 
 
222 THE BERG AND THE BARK. 
 
 There, there stood the Ice King, bright, baleful and cold, 
 And grim as the Jarls and the Vikings of old ; 
 And hailstones, like diamonds, bejeweled his crown, 
 Majestic as Odin, of Norseland renown. 
 
 He spoke not, he turned not, but, pulseless and pale, 
 He reck'd not the billow, nor voice of the gale ; 
 On the treacherous track, his ship knew but too well, 
 Like Loki, he rush'd on his errand of hell. 
 
 Not a league from the weird ship, a staunch little bark 
 Darted on in her course, without warning or mark ; 
 She noted the iceberg's pale, glittering face, 
 And her doom, should she touch but its terrible base. 
 
 On her deck r in the dread hush of speechless despair, 
 Stood brave men, and children, and womanhood fair; 
 A shuddering horror sealed fast every lip, 
 As nearer they came to the merciless ship. 
 
 Unmoved, midst the storm, stood the helmsman so brave, 
 Little reck'd at the wind or the tempest-toss'd wave ; 
 Beside him was Astrid, his fair, winsome child, 
 Looking out on the Ocean, all boisterous and wild. 
 
THE BERG AND THE BARK. 223 
 
 "What is that, oh, Father! What is that?" she cried, 
 "That moves like a ghost far out on the tide? 
 See, Father, it's coming, it almost is here, 
 It looks like a bright frozen cloud rolling near ! " 
 
 The maiden listened ; mysterious and slow 
 Came borne on the whirlwind a voice soft and low ; 
 In her dark, prayerful eyes lay no boding of ill, 
 For she heard above all that voice "small and still." 
 
 The favoring wind, now shifting its course, 
 'Gainst the glittering berg beat with pitiless force; 
 It work'd and it writh'd in its terrible might, 
 As the blast swept in fury its pinnacled height. 
 
 O'er the deck of the bark the storm-crested wave 
 Dash'd relentless. Still daring, the helmsman so brave, 
 By the soft, loving light of the radiant moon 
 Turn'd her course from the Ice King's cold ship of 
 doom. 
 
 And now, as the bark o'er the wild waters sped. 
 From her fate by the God of the storms safely led, 
 There came from the iceberg a deafening roar, 
 That struck horror to hearts horror-stricken before. 
 
224 THE BERG AND THE BARK. 
 
 The Ice King had vanished ; swift, sudden, the shock 
 That dash'd the doom'd berg 'gainst the granite-ribb'd 
 
 rock, 
 
 Uprearing its crest 'neath the billow ; the bright 
 Ship struck, and from base to its towering height, 
 
 Shivering and reeling, with one mighty crash, 
 As instant as thought or the lightning's dread flash, 
 It quiver'd and broke o'er the black, angry wave, 
 Then silently sank to its fathomless grave. 
 
T. E. GKEEN. 
 
 (CLASS OF "1880.") 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 There's a story told 
 
 In a legend old, 
 Of a maiden of heavenly birth ; 
 
 But a silver dart 
 
 Had pierced her heart, 
 And she loved a youth of earth. 
 
 So she stole away, 
 
 In the dawn of day, 
 From her place by the throne of Jove; 
 
 And through summer hours, 
 
 From the blooming flowers, 
 She blushed her heart's fond love. 
 
 But the spying eye 
 Of the sun on high, 
 p 
 
226 VIOLETS. 
 
 Saw the maiden in her disguise; 
 And when evening late 
 Had swung the gate, 
 
 And lighted the lantered skies; 
 
 *He told her love 
 To the gods above, 
 
 And their anger grew fierce and dread ; 
 And their sentence dire, 
 Like the Thunderer's fire, 
 
 Fell full on her drooping head. 
 
 They bound her then 
 
 With a golden chain, 
 And from heaven's arches high, 
 
 Like a wandering star 
 
 In the azure far, 
 She fell through the evening sky. 
 
 On earth she fell, 
 
 In a grassy dell 
 Where the whispering flowers grew ; 
 
 And the morning bright 
 
 Kissed her tears to light, 
 'Till they blossomed in violets blue. 
 
THOMAS G. LYTLE. 
 HOPE ON. 
 
 Hope on ! though every dream of life should perish, 
 
 And youth's gay flush like summer flowers consume ; 
 Though all the dearest ties you love to cherish 
 
 Elude your grasp like shadows from the tomb. 
 Though friends betray, and fickle fortune slight you, 
 
 Though every prop you lean upon is gone, 
 Though night shuts in without one star to light you, 
 
 And tempests howl around you, still, hope on. 
 
 Though like a pilot on the rocks of danger 
 
 Thy lone soul looks out from her idle helm ; 
 Yet seems, O God, to drift in as a stranger 
 
 Before the balmy lights in that fair realm ; 
 Hope on ! the howling blast will sink beneath you, 
 
 And nature's storm-king leave the sea more calm. 
 The starless night though long, at last shall wreathe you 
 
 With the full glory of the sunlight's palm. 
 
 What though I feel my hold on this earth weaken, 
 What though death drop his mantle down apace, 
 
228 HOPE ON. 
 
 My soul shall know Thee as a ship its beacon, 
 
 And sun itself at last upon his face. 
 Hope on, dear heart, hope on and on forever, 
 
 Though all thou hope for on this earth be gone ; 
 For I am sure that God will never, never, 
 
 Crush the brave heart that still in Him hopes on ; 
 That still in Him, defiant, grand, hopes on. 
 
PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Point them to the summits, where the patriots bled, 
 To every village where lie their glorious dead ; 
 Point where their bosoms met the dreadful shock, 
 Their only corselet the rude rustic's frock : 
 Point where they mustered to the gathering horn, 
 Where titled chieftains curled their lips in scorn ; 
 Point where their leader bade the lines advance, 
 No musket wavering in the lion's glance ; 
 Point where they fainted in the forced retreat, 
 And tracked the snow-drifts with their bleeding feet; 
 Point where their banners tossing in the blast, 
 Bore ever ready faithful to the last 
 Through storm and battle, till they waved again. 
 O'er Yorktown's hills, and Saratoga's plain. 
 
RICHARD ARNOLD GREENE. 
 
 (CLASS OF "1878.") 
 
 PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 
 
 Treading 'neath those oaks tremendous, 
 I was bound by Wonder's spell : 
 
 Dark they rose in height stupendous, 
 Murmuring loud with ceaseless swell 
 
 " Wind or blast can never rend us." 
 
 While I watched them, all alluring, 
 Scorners of the scathing storm, 
 
 Still again they spoke, assuring 
 That in grand and massive form 
 
 They would ever stand enduring. 
 
 Now, in hidden beauty lying, 
 Each one drooping low its head, 
 
 'Neath those ancient oaks undying, 
 From their mossy, humble bed, 
 
 I could hear the violets sighing : 
 
PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 231 
 
 " Ye who with unquenched ambition 
 Watch us from your lofty height, 
 
 Spurn our dark, unfamed position 
 Oaks majestic, in your sight 
 
 Ever low is our condition." 
 
 Time unhindered, swiftly gliding 
 
 With his mighty hand works change ; 
 
 E'en those oaks, so strong abiding, 
 Lay in his extended range, 
 
 In their ageless power confiding. 
 
 Lo ! He's torn them far asunder, 
 While his aid, the exultant Wind, 
 
 Claims them for his own rich plunder. 
 Still, in lowly grace I find 
 
 Living violets, and I wonder 
 
 If this may not be a warning, 
 
 Telling us how vain is Pride ; 
 That Humility adorning, 
 
 Borne along Time's raging tide, 
 Shall outlast the blasts of scorning, 
 
 And with olden charm abide 
 Till the fair eternal morning. 
 
E. F. DUNN. 
 NO, NO, IT IS NOT DYING. 
 
 No, no, it is not dying, 
 
 To go unto our God 
 This gloomy earth forsaking, 
 Our journey homeward taking, 
 Along the starry road. 
 
 No, no, it is not dying, 
 
 Heaven's citizen to be 
 A wreath immortal wearing, 
 And rest unbroken sharing, 
 From care and conflict free. 
 
 No, no, it is not dying, 
 
 To wear a lordly crown 
 Among God's people dwelling, 
 The glorious triumph swelling, 
 Of Him whose sway we own. 
 
E. SPENCEK MILLEK. 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1836.") 
 [Author of " Caprices."] 
 
 IGDRASIL. 
 
 For the Present holds in it the whole Past and the whole Future, 
 as the Life tree Igdrasil wide-waving, many-toned, has its 
 roots down deep in the Death kingdoms, among the oldest dead 
 dust of men, and with its boughs reaches always beyond the stars, 
 and in all times and places is one and the same life tree. CARLYLE. 
 
 Igdrasil weird and sombre tree, 
 My spirit's awe goes up to thee, 
 And shadows chill my revery. 
 
 I lie beneath thee, in a night 
 
 Of phantom-shapes and fitful light, 
 
 And fancy shudders in her flight. 
 
 The voices of the countless dead, 
 
 The echoes of the ages fled, 
 
 All times are murmuring in thy shade. 
 
234 IGDRASIL. 
 
 And, deeper as the darkness lowers, 
 I feel the presence of the hours, 
 The silent fates of human powers. 
 
 Remorseless hours, that on thy bough 
 Are brooding in an endless now, 
 Upon the steadfast change below ; 
 
 While o'er me the breath of doom, 
 In fitful gusts from out the gloom, 
 Is blowing into years to come 
 
 Igdrasil weird and sombre tree 
 My spirit kneeleth unto thee, 
 And wrestles with thy mystery. 
 
 The green above me flourisheth ; 
 Thy roots are in the grave beneath ; 
 I know that life is fed by death ; 
 
 I know that what is quick to-day, 
 Is born of being past away 
 A new conception of decay. 
 
IGDRASIL. 235 
 
 The ceaseless generations tell 
 
 That life and death are seething well 
 
 In Time, the chemist's aludel. 
 
 For even as I muse around, 
 
 A leaf is falling to the ground, 
 
 But lo ! the night gives up no sound. 
 
 But still its fellows whisper there, 
 And shiver in the pregnant air, 
 And legion are the shapes they wear. 
 
 And legion are the tones that rise 
 In mimicry of strifes and sighs, 
 The burdens of all histories. 
 
 Igdrasil, weird and sombre tree, 
 My spirit goeth forth to thee, 
 And yearneth to her destiny. 
 
 And as the twilight of the Past 
 Comes up thro 7 that perspective east, 
 I see a trembling shadow cast. 
 
236 IGDEASIL. 
 
 A shadow without line or mark, 
 And restless as the wrecking bark 
 A shadow trembling on the dark. 
 
 A shadow on whose surface swim, 
 In phantom pictures vague and dim, 
 The fragments of all life and time. 
 
 And yet the shadow of a tree, 
 
 Whose trunk and branches sway with thee, 
 
 But lengthen to infinity. 
 
 A tree where slow mine eye receives 
 A vision of thy boughs and leaves 
 That shiver as the shadow heaves. 
 
 The spell is o'er ; the doubtful light 
 Has faded from my aching sight, 
 Yet still thy voice is on the night. 
 
 Igdrasil weird and sombre tree 
 The Past and Present merge in thee ; 
 The Present is alone with me, 
 
THE DYING SKEPTIC. 
 
 Peace, coward heart ; 
 
 Stand fast and fear not as the hollow night 
 Deepens about thee, and the muffled step 
 Of the invisible, chill messenger 
 Draws near and nearer on the echoless hours. 
 Thou, who hast questioned dim astrologies, 
 Why start and shudder at a new conjunction 
 In the uncertain, shifting horoscope ? 
 Thou, who alone in truant haunts of thought 
 Has loved the thinnest outside air of truth, 
 Where reason grapples languidly with doubt, 
 The actual wrestles with the Infinite ; 
 Why clutch and grasp for some material hold, 
 When the whole girding atmosphere of life 
 Sinks from about thee, and thou art in space ? 
 Thou who hast left thy one own beautiful sun, 
 The fireside of a planetary household, 
 And, in the dream of fancy's marvellous sleep 
 Worshipped the innumerable hosts of heaven, 
 That, in the orderings of Divinity, 
 Appear but in the night, and then far off. 
 
238 THE DYING SKEPTIC. 
 
 And but to him that waking, against Nature 
 From out the broken rest of care or crime, 
 Seeth above him, in that solemn hour, 
 Signs supernatural, paths of meteors : 
 Why dost thou falter when thou may'st be free, 
 And roam God's boundless government a child, 
 Not of the earth, but of the universe ? 
 Thou who hast struggled with thy destiny, 
 And, in the fever of thine inner vision, 
 Hast curst this passive chrysalis of thine, 
 Why stand all palsied when the unseen hand 
 Opens Time's outward gate, and leaves thee nude 
 In the full presence of Eternity ? 
 
MALCOLM MACDONALD. 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1861.") 
 
 EXCERPTS FROM " GUATEMOZIN." 
 
 Ah ! I will strike 
 
 With mailed hand on Fame, till every bolt 
 And hinge shall shake within their portal-seat; 
 As he who laid his sword within the warp 
 Of Destiny, and held it woven there ; 
 Eternal as Orion's starry blade, 
 Which out no arm may draw, or it will cut 
 A gap in Nature, high heaven's law be broke, 
 And chaos rule the darkened void again. 
 
 Am I a brute, to crop the herbage of content in 
 times like these ? 
 
 I'll practice on his vents of whims and humours. 
 Till, like a windy flute, he pipes my way. 
 
240 EXCERPTS FROM " GUATEMOZIN." 
 
 Kiss her on the lips ; sweet Acalan is mine, 
 For I shall send so fair a shaft, thy body 
 Will open lips, and kiss thy life away. 
 
 That strange, uncounted sense instinctive fear- 
 Sniffed, like a deer that scents the tainted air, 
 The coming evil. 
 
 Strike at their faces there all the senses come 
 To learn of you, and let the lesson be 
 Blind eyes, deaf ears, dumb mouths 
 Death Death. 
 
 I felt a sudden quickening of air, as if a god had 
 turned and looked on me. 
 
 Ah ! what are we ? We crumble in the hand, 
 
 As butterflies leave on our fingers dust, 
 
 Go lame, and die, killed by the slightest touch. 
 
 I saw our forces last, a narrow ribbon, that flut- 
 tered in a wind of men. 
 
EXCERPTS FROM " GUATEMOZIN." 241 
 
 He is of perfect force a fortress of expedients ; 
 I marvel at him no misfortune daunts, 
 But strengthens more to counterplot with fate. 
 
 Delay confesses weakness, 'tis the pause 
 
 For breath that comes between the lifted sword 
 
 Of weary fighter, and his trembling stroke, 
 
 What time the warrior takes to run him through. 
 
 O Love, thou juggler of the heart! 
 
 First I will ply my arguments to blow 
 Red hot his temper, then I'll call my hammers, and 
 we will forge him to our purpose tight. 
 
 What? Hath my reason gone, my ears turned liars, 
 my eyes deceived, and my memory broken, 
 that its fragments patch so wrongly? 
 
 Such victories surely defeat themselves. 
 
 This open garden this all-seeing sun are gossips. 
 Q 
 
HENKY CLOW. 
 Author of a volume of unpublished poems. 
 
 OSSIAK 
 
 Oh ! for a spark of Ossian's native fire, 
 To wake my song, and touch my silent lyre ! 
 On wildest wing my muse would speed her way 
 To "Selma's Hall," where midnight visions play! 
 Where Fancy pictures, midst the stately trees, 
 The ghost of Ossian, beckoning on the breeze. 
 
LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! my native shore ! 
 
 Dear, happy scenes, a long adieu ! 
 O fond remembrance ! yet once more 
 
 Methinks I take the parting view ! 
 
 As some sweet flower in fragrance borne, 
 Beyond the sea when it is dead ; 
 
 E'en so at midnight and at morn, 
 Still shine visions that are fled. 
 
 Oft have I strayed near Allen's stream, 
 When light of evening on it lay! 
 
 How pleasant soon 'twill be to dream 
 Of scenes like thine, tho' far away : 
 
 The rustic cot ; the village green ; 
 
 The winding stream that smooths along 
 The hawthorn shade, where lovers stray 
 
 To shun the watchful noontide throng ! 
 
244 LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 
 
 Come, fancy, with thy airy wing! 
 
 ! come with all thy cloudy train ! 
 7 Tis Nature calls ! Haste, phantom, bring 
 
 These balmy scenes to me again. 
 
 She comes ! Methink I mark the rill 
 Where lilies kiss the crystal stream ! 
 She comes ! submissive to her will 
 
 1 haste to drink the passing dream. 
 
ELBERT S. PORTER. 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 
 
 A THRENODY. 
 
 A Smile ! A Tear ! 
 A Hope ! A Fear ! 
 Like ripples on the stream, 
 Like moonlight's fading beam, 
 They come they pass. 
 Ah me, alas ! 
 This life is vapor 
 A flickering taper ! 
 
 In flowing sympathies, in surging sorrows, 
 In hopeful ecstacies, in glad to-morrows, 
 Its rapid current runs its mystic race, 
 And man at last awakes in Death's embrace. 
 
 A Truth ! A Lie ! 
 
 A Joy ! A Sigh ! 
 Flow mingled in a wave 
 That swallows, as the grave, 
 
246 A THRENODY. 
 
 Both good and ill ! 
 Mysterious still 
 Its surface shining, 
 Its depths repining ! 
 
 With warring passions that can never rest, 
 The heart is throbbing in the troubled breast ; 
 Eager for joy, it seizes present pain, 
 And worships phantom pleasures o'er again. 
 
 A Birth ! A Breath ! 
 A Toll ! A Death ! 
 Then yawns the hungry tomb 
 To which all flesh must come, 
 And life is done, 
 The goal is won ! 
 Dreams all are ended, 
 Strength all expended. 
 In awful silence now the dust asleep 
 Throbs with no love, nor hears if friendship weep 
 The marble cold, the flower-encircled knoll, 
 Conceal and guard the palace of a soul. 
 
 A Soul ! A Sin ! 
 
 Ah, how I Ah, when 
 Shall these disparted be ? 
 What holy ministry 
 
A THRENODY. 247 
 
 Shall work the cure, 
 And make Faith sure 
 That piteous Heaven 
 Death's hold hath riven? 
 A loving Presence shines upon our sight 
 Incarnate Truth diffusing living light ! 
 
HESPERION. 
 
 The day's great portals slowly close, 
 Swung by the fairy-fingered hours, 
 
 And evening's colors, flaked with rose, 
 Wave from the caps of cloudy towers. 
 
 The wreathing winds are hushed to rest, 
 Pillowed in snowy cloud-fleece fair; 
 
 Dark night has bared her ebon breast, 
 And set her jewels in her hair. 
 
 The soft, low-beaming star of even 
 Woos with a kiss the flying day, 
 
 Till the far-reaching blue of heaven 
 Blushes beneath its mantle gray. 
 
 The moon, pale abbess of the sky, 
 Peers from her cloudy cloister bars, 
 
 And kneels neath heaven's arches high, 
 Counting her rosary of stars. 
 
SUMMER TIME. 
 
 All the day 
 Bees are humming in the clover ; 
 
 Flowers gay, 
 Blooming all the wide fields over ; 
 
 Summer sky, 
 Laughing at the babbling river 
 
 Grain-fields high, 
 With the truant breezes quiver ; 
 
 Early moon, 
 Rising in the blushing even ; 
 
 Taper stars, 
 In the altar arch of heaven : 
 
 Kisses sweet, 
 Stolen from the willing maiden ; 
 
 Whispered vows, 
 With life's early fragrance laden ; 
 
250 . SUMMER TIME. 
 
 Lazily 
 Bees are humming in the clover 
 
 Well-a-clay, 
 Summer time will soon be over. 
 
A YEAR AGO. 
 
 A year ago, 
 Beyond the meadow's ruined stile, 
 
 We gathered flowers 
 
 Through summer hours ; 
 I loved you dearly for the while, 
 
 A year ago. 
 
 A year ago 
 Your love was like the violets true ; 
 
 But winter white 
 
 Hath brought its blight ; 
 Your heart is not the heart I knew 
 
 A vear ago. 
 
EDITH COOKE. 
 
 [Authoress.] 
 
 A THRUSH'S SONG. 
 
 Underneath a leafy cover, 
 
 Green with morn ing- wealth of June, 
 Wanting still, like gift of lover, 
 
 Craving even greater boon, 
 
 Deeper chords of light to perfect summer's fullness, 
 love's high noon ; 
 
 Just apart from all the glitter 
 
 Of a busy crystal world, 
 Where, amid quick human twitter, 
 Leaping shuttle wrought bright fancies, girded wheels 
 obedient whirled ; 
 
 Just a little from the glimmer, 
 
 From the footfalls' tuneless tread, 
 With the distance ever dimmer, 
 
 Rose, so calm o'ershadowed, 
 
 Sound of lusty drum and hautboy, with clear flute voice 
 interlaid. 
 
A THRUSH'S SONG. 253 
 
 Notes exultant, loud outpouring, 
 
 Chant of nations, lightly bound 
 With frail melody, uproaring 
 
 On the people, gathered round, 
 
 Resting from the glare a little, from the wearing light 
 and sound. 
 
 Ears of loyal Britons tingling, 
 
 Hark'ning there, " God save the Queen ;" 
 Erin's children's tears commingling 
 At " The Wearing of the Green," 
 
 Thinking of a loveless bondage, truer trust that might 
 have been. 
 
 Sounds of wrathful people seeming 
 
 Storming through the "Marseillaise," 
 Stirred a land, nigh dead in dreaming, 
 Through Hortense's song of praise, 
 Through its wailing sadness tolling bells of old chival- 
 ric days. 
 
 Through sad France's slumber breaking 
 
 Germany's triumphant hymn. 
 Amid people's, eager waking, 
 
 Watching Rhine-lights growing dim, 
 Hearing clear a weary nation struggling sore with 
 spectres grim. 
 
254 
 
 In the nations' anthems swelling, 
 
 Ever twanged some chord of wrong ; 
 Broken notes in anguish welling, 
 
 Even in our starlit song 
 
 Shadowy notes from swamp and prairie mingling with 
 the suffering throng. 
 
 Stilled at last the music's clamour, 
 Drum and hautboy laid to rest, 
 Softly through the silence' glamour 
 Stole the light wind of the west, 
 
 Gently parted the green branches, tenderly each leaf 
 caressed. 
 
 And a sudden thrill of sweetness, 
 Mellow, careless, glad and clear, 
 Love's noon-song in its completeness, 
 
 Poured in peaceful nature's ear, 
 
 From a thrush's throat of silver happy song without 
 one tear 
 
 Fell like precious, heav'n-dropped token 
 
 'Mid the elements of strife, 
 'Mid the melodies, grief-broken, 
 
 Blare of trumpet, shriek of fife 
 
 Only with undarkened blessings was the thrush's sing- 
 ing rife. 
 
A THRUSH'S SONG. 255. 
 
 Where the ways were broad and ordered 
 
 England's Indian blossoms flamed ; 
 Here, where guarding thickets bordered, 
 
 Bloom of May June's sunshine claimed, 
 Lifting, 'mid the throngs of people, glance, half- fearing, 
 half-ashamed ; 
 
 Trembling at the cymbals crashing 
 
 Through the ancient solitude, 
 Till the thrush's sweetness flashing, 
 With its wild- wood joy imbued, 
 
 Seemed a covenant from heaven, arc of promise, rain- 
 bow-hued. 
 
 In the upper silence singing, 
 Hidden minstrel, unafraid, 
 In the sunlit branches, swinging, 
 
 By the west wind, whispering, swayed, 
 All the lower tumult silenced in the clear, blue depths 
 o'erhead ; 
 
 Whence the peace of heaven, descending, 
 
 Filled the bird's song, true and clear, 
 Lightsome duty sweetness lending, 
 
 Joy o'erbrimming in its cheer, 
 
 Freedom on his pinions resting, sunshine soft, and 
 heaven near. 
 
256 
 
 Careless strength and free heart blending 
 
 In each note's melodious mirth, 
 
 Calm within a pure soul bending, 
 
 Praising for its heavenly birth, 
 
 For its gift of soaring pinions, lightening so the bonds 
 of earth. 
 
 With that clear and sudden sweetness 
 
 Sober fancies swept along, 
 And its wild-wood, perfect muteness 
 
 Seemed our country's truer song, 
 Sunshine soft, and heaven near it, and no undertone of 
 
 So, methought, her clear voice ringing, 
 
 Should in strength of freedom rise, 
 With the sweetness of its singing, 
 
 Every evil exorcise; 
 
 Blessing for her children winning through her nearness 
 to the skies. 
 
PHILIP FKENEAU. 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1771.") 
 
 THE INDIAN. 
 
 Author of several volumes of Poems. 
 [From Grisu'old's American Poets.'] 
 
 In spite of all the learned have said, 
 I still my old opinion keep ; 
 
 The posture that we give the dead 
 Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 
 
 Not so the ancients of these lands, 
 The Indian, when from life released 
 
 Again is seated with his friends, 
 And shares again the joyous feast. 
 
 His imaged birds, and painted bowl, 
 And ven'son for a journey dressed, 
 
 Bespeak the nature of the soul, 
 Activity that knows no rest. 
 R 
 
258 THE INDIAN. 
 
 By midnight moons o'er moistening dews, 
 In vestments for the chase arrayed, 
 
 The hunter still the deer pursues, 
 The hunter and the deer a shade. 
 
JOHN T. DUFFIELD. 
 
 PSALM XC. 
 
 Author of metrical version of the Psalms, some of which have 
 been adopted into our Hynmology. 
 
 1. 
 
 Lord ! in all generations Thou 
 Our dwelling-place liast been ; 
 
 Before the mountains were brought forth, 
 Before the world was seen : 
 
 2. 
 
 Or ever Thou hadst formed the earth, 
 Or spread the heavens abroad, 
 
 From everlasting, Lord, Thou art 
 To everlasting, God. 
 
 3. 
 Back to destruction and to dust, 
 
 Thou turnest man again ; 
 To all our mortal race Thou say'st, 
 
 u Return, ye sons of men." 
 
260 PSALM XC. 
 
 4. 
 
 A thousand years to us so vast 
 O Lord ! are in Thy sight 
 
 As yesterday when it is past, 
 And as a watch of night. 
 
 5. 
 
 As with a sweeping flood, our race 
 
 Thou carriest away ; 
 They are asleep, yea, like the grass 
 
 That grows at morn are they. 
 
 6. 
 At morn it groweth up and blooms, 
 
 At eve cut down, doth fade ; 
 O Lord ! Thine anger us consumes, 
 
 Thy wrath makes us afraid. 
 
 7. 
 All our iniquity and sin 
 
 Before Thee Thou dost place ; 
 Our secret sins thou settest in 
 
 The brightness of Thy face. 
 
PSALM XC. 261 
 
 8. 
 In Thy consuming wrath, behold 
 
 Our days waste to their end ; 
 And as a tale that has been told, 
 
 So all our years we spend. 
 
 9. 
 The days of all the years we see, 
 
 Are three-score years and ten ; 
 And if by strength they four-score be, 
 
 Their strength itself is vain. 
 
 10. 
 For it in labor is employed, 
 
 And sorrow every day, 
 'Tis soon cut off, we are destroyed, 
 
 And swiftly fly away. 
 
 11. 
 Who of Thine auger knows the power ? 
 
 Who can endure Thy rod ? 
 According even to Thy fear, 
 
 So is Thy wrath, O God. 
 
262 PSALM XC. 
 
 12. 
 Teach us since death is ever nigh- 
 
 To number all our days, 
 That we may earnestly apply 
 
 Our hearts to wisdom's ways. 
 
CHARLES W. SHIELDS. 
 
 (CLASS OF " 1844.") 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LIBERTY. 
 
 O Liberty ! again thy story, 
 
 Which oft before thy sons have told, 
 The rolling cycles swell with glory, 
 
 The story that can ne'er grow old : 
 How Truth and Right have battPd Error, 
 How patriots rush'd to martyrs' graves, 
 How freemen scorn'cl the chains of slaves, 
 And tyrants fell with rage and terror. 
 Rejoice, O Liberty ! 
 
 Take courage from the past : 
 Press on ! press on ! till victory 
 Shall crown thy brows at last. 
 
 Lo ! on these western waters drifted, 
 In flying bands across the main, 
 
 A chosen race of heroes sifted, 
 
 As from the chaff is threshM the grain : 
 
 They come, the van of eastern sages ; 
 
264 THE TRIUMPH OF LIBERTY. 
 
 They bear the richest spoils of Time, 
 And hail the new, imperial clime 
 Adorn'd of old for riper ages. 
 
 L O 
 
 Rejoice, O Liberty ! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! what groans and shouts are blend- 
 ing! 
 
 New England calls with struggling breath ! 
 Virginia's tongue of flame is sending 
 
 The cry of " Liberty or Death!" 
 While Jersey sees the war-clouds lower, 
 
 Her face by hireling legions marr'd, 
 
 Her dauntless brow with battles scarr'd, 
 Till victory gleams on Nassau's tower. 
 Rejoice, O Liberty ! 
 
 Ah ! bitter, bitter and defiant 
 
 The surges of the civic strife, 
 Ere like a full-arm'd infant giant, 
 
 The nation struggled into life ! 
 And long, O long shall be recited, 
 
 What glories shroud the fallen brave, 
 
 How virtue blossoms from their grave, 
 In arts increased and states united. 
 Rejoice, O Liberty ! 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIBERTY. 265 
 
 Nor yet, O Liberty, is ended 
 
 Thy march of glorious agony ; 
 Not till all tongues and peoples blended 
 
 At length acclaim, The world is free ! 
 Not till one nation to another 
 
 Around the globe shall roll the strain, 
 
 The West rejoin the East again, 
 And man hail every man his brother. 
 Rejoice, O Liberty ! 
 
 O Liberty! then be thy story 
 
 Still, still with quenchless fervor told 
 As rolling cycles swell its glory ; 
 
 The story that can ne'er grow old, 
 While yet the radiant face of Nature 
 Is darkened by a single slave, 
 As long as Virtue claims the brave, 
 And man hath faith in his Creator. 
 Rejoice, O Liberty ! 
 
 Take courage from the past ; 
 Press on ! press on ! till victory 
 Shall crown thy brows at last ! 
 
STEPHEN ALEXANDER 
 
 THE NATION'S HOPE. 
 
 O second Land of Promise, 
 
 E'en of this latter day, 
 A promise that in mercies 
 
 God's finger did portray. 
 
 Land in whose wondrous progress 
 Was His right arm revealed, 
 
 Who did her hosts encompass 
 " With favor as a shield." 
 
 Land of God's preparation, 
 
 As centuries rolled on ; 
 Scene of his great salvation, 
 
 For centuries to come. 
 
 Land thence, of God's adoption 
 Where he designs to raise 
 
 Through many generations, 
 A Temple to his praise. 
 
267 
 
 Land of the pilgrim exiled, 
 Land of the would-be-free, 
 
 Land of the open Bible, 
 Thence land of liberty. 
 
 Land of God's benediction 
 In all that makes us great, 
 
 Where duty joined to privilege, 
 In union stand complete. 
 
 The light of her example 
 Has flashed across the sea : 
 
 Just where the burdened nations 
 Are struggling to be free. 
 
 And they, in that rejoicing, 
 E'en now begin to raise 
 
 For disenthralled religion 
 
 The voice of prayer and praise. 
 
 To take complete possession 
 Of this inheritance, 
 
 Behold, in long succession, 
 A peaceful host advance. 
 
268 
 
 To plant the rose of Sharon 
 Through all the prairies wild 
 
 The lesson of the lilies, 
 
 Tell to each saddened child. 
 
 And Gilead's balm to carry 
 Unto each nook and glen 
 
 Commission sanitary, 
 
 Commission Christian then. 
 
 And where the miner's treasure 
 Is hailed with gladdened eyes, 
 
 The priceless pearl to proffer, 
 But proffer without price. 
 
 Till on the Nation's Highway 
 God's temples mark the road, 
 
 And from each mountain by-way 
 Sounds household praise to God. 
 
 Till from the stormy ocean 
 That bounds us on the east, 
 
 Unto that World of waters 
 That terminates the west. 
 
269 
 
 And from the Central Valley, 
 And o'er our broad domain, 
 
 Each generation passing, 
 Shall to the next proclaim 
 
 The wonders, of his dealing, 
 Who did our fathers lead ; 
 
 His grace for grace revealing, 
 In every lime of need. 
 
 His mighty acts tell over, 
 And ne'er His love forget, 
 
 Who in His mercy saved us, 
 For sacred union yet. 
 
HUMOROUS POETRY. 
 
C. G. LELAND. 
 DIE SCHOENE WITTWE. 
 
 THE POOTY VIDDER. 
 
 [From the Hans Breitmari's Ballads.] 
 
 Dat pooty liddle vidder 
 Vot we doshn't vish to name, 
 Ish still leben on dat liddle shtreet, 
 A-doin shuss de same. 
 De glerks around t de gorners 
 Somedimes goes round to zee 
 How de tarlin liddle vitchy ees, 
 Und ask er how she pe. 
 Dey lofes her ver' goot liquoer, 
 Dey loves her liddle shtore; 
 Dey loves her liddle paby, 
 But dey lofes die vidder more. 
 To talk mih dat shveet vidder, 
 Ven she hands das lager round, 
 Vill make der shap dat does id 
 Pe happy, ve'll be pound. 
 s 
 
274 DIE SCHOENE WITTWE. 
 
 Dat ish if ve can veil pelieve 
 De glerks vat drinks das peer, 
 Who goes in dere for nodings elshe, 
 Put simply for to zee her. 
 
O, MEIN FRACK 1ST IM PFAND-HAUS." 
 
 Mine tress-goat is shpouted, mine tress-goat aint here, 
 While you in your ball robes go splurgin, mein tear ! 
 To barties mit you I'm infited you know, 
 Boot my pest coat ish shponted mine poots are no go. 
 To hell mit mine Onkel dat rasgally knave ! 
 Dis pledgin und pawn in lias mate me his slafe. 
 Ven I dink of his sign-bost, den dree dimes I bawl, 
 While mine black pants hang lonely und dark on de 
 wall. 
 
 Goot night to dees fine lofe, so lofely und rich, 
 Mein tress-goat is shpouted, gonfount efery stitch ! 
 I dinks dat old Satan troo all mine affairs, 
 Lofe, business, und fun, has been sewin his tares, 
 My tress-goat ish shpouted mine tress-goat aint here, 
 While you in your glorie go shinin, mein tear ; 
 Und de luck of der teufol ish loose ofer all, 
 While mine black pants hang lonely und dark on de 
 wall. 
 
HANS BREITMAN'S IDEA OF "BOLITICS." 
 
 Dese ish de brincibles I holts, 
 
 Und dose in vitch I run: 
 Dey ish fixed firm and immutaple 
 
 Ash te course of de ternal sun ; 
 Boot if you ton't tibbrove of dem 
 
 Blease nod ice vot I say, 
 I shall only pe too happy 
 
 To alter them right a fay. 
 
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM THE IRRECON 
 
 CILABLES, CONCERNING A RECENT 
 
 UNPLE ASANTN ESS. 
 
 Which we wish to remark, 
 And our language is squa ah, 
 
 Tliat a man which is dark, 
 And has kinks in his hai-ah, 
 
 Isn't coming to lectures with " we uns," 
 And "we uns" consent to be thea-ah. 
 
 Which the lecture was that 
 
 On the '-'Science of Mind," 
 And our hearts as we sat 
 
 Were at peace with mankind, 
 When who should come in but a nigg-ah 
 
 And squat on a seat just behind. 
 
 We looked up at Mac, 
 
 And he rose with a sigh, 
 And remarked its a fac' 
 
 Well, I wish I may die 
 
278 PLAIN LANGUAGE, &C. 
 
 If I'm going to sit here with a nigg-ah, 
 And we left without any reply. 
 
 We repeat the remark, 
 
 And our language is squa-ah, 
 
 That a man which is dark, 
 And has kinks in his hai-ah, 
 
 Isn't coming to College with " we uns," 
 And " we uns " consent to be thea-ah. 
 
R. E. A. 
 WHAT SHE SAID ON THE WAY HOME. 
 
 AFTER THE POPULAR SCIENCE LECTURE. 
 
 Yes, I think it was perfectly splendid 
 
 I'm sure I feel awfully wise, 
 With my head full of glaciers and icebergs, 
 
 Of such a ridiculous size; 
 And the masses of what do you call it 
 
 The dirt that is ever so old 
 And came down on the ice to New Jersey, 
 
 It must have been horribly cold. 
 
 The views, too, were perfectly lovely ? 
 
 Especially Mont Blanc and the Alps; 
 Though the last ones were perfectly frightful- 
 
 Those men with the clubs and the scalps. 
 Well, maybe they didn't have scalps 
 
 They frightened me all the same, 
 And that animal wasn't he horrid. 
 
 The what did he say was-his name ? 
 
280 WHAT SHE SAID ON THE WAY HOME. 
 
 O ! I perfectly dote upon science : 
 
 I think it's just jolly good fun : 
 And I wish I were going on your expe- 
 
 Dition, with knapsack and gun. 
 Mamma says I'm growing strong-minded, 
 
 And should cut off my hair, and all that, 
 Though eye-glasses would not become me, 
 
 And how could I keep on my hat ? 
 
 Here's the end of our walk Good night ! 
 
 You may call Wednesday evening, Rob, 
 And we'll talk of the Glacial Epoch, 
 
 And the wonderful thingumabob. 
 
D. M. 
 
 (CLASS OF "1829.") 
 
 VARIATIONS ON THE C STRING. 
 
 Old Munclus shudders in his ribs 
 And ponders in his mists, 
 
 When millionaires with patent nibs 
 Prepare financial lists. 
 
 For he has felt the cable thrown 
 
 Around his mighty ribs, 
 And dreads the sharp, magnetic tone 
 
 Of these commercial nibs. 
 
 The Psalmist, in his wisdom, said, 
 
 " Deep calleth unto deep." 
 Three thousand years hath he been dead ; 
 
 How green his sayings keep. 
 
282 VARIATIONS ON THE C STRING. 
 
 And modern genius idly sings 
 Of " music of the spheres." 
 
 Little imagining what strings 
 Are twisting with the years. 
 
 The daring mariner long erst 
 
 Plumbed ocean's treacherous bed ; 
 
 Lo, here the soundings lie immersed, 
 Conversing with the lead.* 
 
 Thus science brings the teeming womb 
 
 Of .Nature to the birth, 
 And crowns with intellectual bloom 
 
 Her princes in the earth. 
 
 Type. 
 
J. ADDISON ALEXANDER 
 
 THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY. 
 
 AIR." The University of Gottingen." 
 
 When others, once as poor as I, 
 Are growing rich, because^ they try, 
 While my capacity and will 
 Give me a taste for sitting still ; 
 When all around me are at work, 
 While I prefer to act the Turk, 
 Or spend in drinking or at play 
 The greater part of every day ; 
 Arid, as the upshot of it, feel 
 That I must either starve or steal ; 
 The only remedy I see, 
 For such abuses, is the re- 
 Construction of society, 
 
 Construction of society. 
 
 When others know what I know not, 
 Or bear in mind what I forgot 
 An age ago, and dare to speak 
 
284 THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY. 
 
 In praise of Latin and of Greek, 
 As if a tongue unknown to me 
 Of any earthly use could be ; 
 When bookworms are allowed to rule 
 In University and School, 
 While I, because I am a fool, 
 Or, happep, by the merest chance, 
 To have learned nothing save to dance, 
 Am set aside, or thrust away, 
 Or not allowed to have my say ; 
 The only remedy I see 
 For such abuses, is the re- 
 Construction of society, 
 
 Construction of society. 
 
 When judges frown and parsons scold, 
 Because a gentleman makes bold 
 To laugh at superstitious saws, 
 And violate oppressive laws ; 
 When pinching want will not atone 
 For taking what is not your own ; 
 When public sentiment proscribes 
 The taking of judicial bribes, 
 And with indignant scorn regards 
 The gentleman who cheats at cards ; 
 
THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY. 285 
 
 When men of wit no longer dare 
 To tell a lie, or even swear ; 
 The only remedy I see 
 For such abuses, is the re- 
 Construction of society, 
 
 Construction of society. 
 
 When, after turning round and round, 
 And occupying every ground : 
 As preacher, poet, rhetorician, 
 Philanthropist and politician, 
 Ascetic, saint, and devotee, 
 Neologist and pharisee, 
 I seek in vain to gain respect 
 By founding a new-fangled sect, 
 And find the world so cautious grown 
 That I must be the sect alone ; 
 The only remedy I see 
 For such abuses, is the re- 
 Construction of society, 
 
 Construction of society. 
 
 When, over and above the scorn 
 
 Of men, which leaves me thus forlorn, 
 
 I find an enemy within 
 
286 THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY. 
 
 Who dares to talk to me of sin, 
 And whispers, even in my dreams, 
 That my disorganizing schemes 
 Can never conjure black to white, 
 Or clearly prove that wrong is right, 
 A nuisance that can never cease 
 Till conscience learns to hold its peace, 
 And men no longer can be awed 
 By apprehensions of a God 
 Ah ! these are griefs for winch I see 
 No solace even in the re- 
 Constructioii of society, 
 
 Construction of society. 
 
TO THE SPIRIT OF DREAMS. 
 
 How evanescent and marine 
 Are thy chaotic uplands seen, 
 
 O ever sub-lapsarian moon. 
 A thousand caravans of light 
 Were not so spherically bright, 
 
 Nor ventilated half so soon. 
 
 Methought I stood upon a cone 
 Of solid allopathic stone, 
 
 And gazed athwart the breezy skies ; 
 When lo ! from yonder hemisphere, 
 A vapid atrabil lions tear 
 
 Was shed by pantomimic eyes. 
 
 Adieu, Miasma, -cries a voice, 
 In which Aleppo might rejoice, 
 
 So peri-focal were its tones. 
 Adieu, Miasma, think of me 
 Beyond the Antinomian sea 
 
 That covers my pellucid bones. 
 
288 TO THE SPIRIT OF DREAMS. 
 
 Again again my bark is tossed 
 Upon the raging holycaust 
 
 Of that acidulated sea:* 
 And diapasons pouring down 
 With lunar caustic join to drown, 
 
 My transcendental epopee, 
 
HUGH LUDLOW. 
 
 TO A RED-HEADED GIRL. 
 
 All thy curls are winding stairs, 
 Where ray passion nobly dares, 
 To mount higher, still and higher, 
 Though the staircase be on fire. 
 
 T 
 
THE JOLLY FELLOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 There was a jolly fellow, who lived about the town, 
 He disapproved of toddy, and so he put it down; 
 He attended public dinners for fun and freedom's sake, 
 And, like a second polycarp, went smiling to the steak. 
 
 II. 
 
 His vests were irreproachable, his trowsers of the kind 
 Adown whose steep declivities hound rushes after hind ; 
 They were a speaking pattern, all the tailors would agree, 
 But, O, alas ! they were too tight to speak coherently. 
 
 III. 
 
 Up half a dozen pair of stairs our hero went to bed, 
 With nothing but the angels and the rafters o'er his head ; 
 And so, although he loved to be where brandy vapor 
 
 curled, 
 There never was a man who lived so much above the 
 
 world. 
 
THE JOLLY FELLOW. 291 
 
 IV. 
 
 No boards of all the roof were known a meeting e'er to 
 
 hold, 
 
 And so the room was nothing but a trap for catching cold ; 
 There was a door the carpenter had left the lock be. 
 
 hind ; 
 It must have slipt him, as he had no "Locke upon the 
 
 Mind." 
 
 V. 
 
 Well plastered were the rooms below, though that's an- 
 other story, 
 
 But now our hero's fate was sealed and not his dormitory ; 
 
 When midnight played upon his bones, airs far from 
 operatic, 
 
 What wonder that an attic room should make a man 
 rheumattic. 
 
 VI. 
 
 No dome was there, no window stained with Peter and 
 
 the keys, 
 
 But every winter brought a vast redundancy of freeze ; 
 Each empty sash groaned dolefully, as if it felt the pain, 
 By some unearthly grammarye a-coming back again. 
 
292 THE JOLLY FELLOW. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Our hero's uncle used to dye, to keep himself alive, 
 His shop was down in Nassau street, at No. 45 ; 
 But when, as every dier must, he found his colors fail, 
 Before he kicked the bucket, he turned a little pale. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 His dandy friends grew fewer, and, alas ! he found be- 
 tween 
 
 Their leaving and their falling off, no summer inter- 
 vene; 
 
 His heart was broken, and at last this fanciest of blades, 
 
 Who used to flare in scarlet vests, preferred the darker 
 shades. 
 
 IX. 
 
 One morning from a frowning cliff he jumped into the 
 
 sea, 
 Crying, " Oh ! thou mighty dying vat, behold I come 
 
 to thee ; " 
 
 You think him green, and as to that I really cannot tell, 
 But if he is, it is the kind they call invisible. 
 
THE JOLLY FELLOW. 293 
 
 X. 
 
 But, oh ! how vain to try to change the color of his days, 
 For he could not conceal himself behind his screen of 
 
 bays ; 
 No yarn, of all that he might spin, could hide his 
 
 uncle's line, 
 For that worthy was not one of those who dye and give 
 
 no sign. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Page X, line 22, Our Dead belongs to second line below, as anonymous 
 
 Page X, line 23, for 133 read 131. 
 
 Page XI, line 17, for Alamby read Alamby M. 
 
 Page XIII, line 22, for D. M. read J. D. M. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Page 1, line 2, fill blank with 1845. 
 
 Page 29, line 8, for with read ah ! 
 
 Page 29, line 9, for thee read thou. 
 
 Page 31, line 1, prefix anonymous. 
 
 Page 31, line 17, for silenceniatus read silence. 
 
 Page 34, line 1, for palid read pallid. 
 
 Page 75, line 1, for Phillip read Philip. 
 
 Page 82, line 2, for Coblentry read Coblentz. 
 
 Page 108, line 1, for Breckenridye read Breckinrulat . 
 
 Page 123, line 6, for Ae read 6e. 
 
 Page 131, line 1, prefix anonymous. 
 
 Page 159, line 1, for Pearson read Pier son. 
 
 Page 172, line 1, for Alamby read Alamby M. 
 
 Page 216, line 2, for now; read nor. 
 
 Page 219, line 1, for Alfred D. read Alfred A. 
 
 Page 243, line 9, after shine supply the. 
 
 Page 281, line 1, for D. M. read ,7. D. M. 
 
YC 1 0b6>6 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY