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And dreams of that which cannot die,
Like ships upon the sea ;
Ere Fancy has been quelled ;
And chronicles of eld.
And, loving still these quaint old themes,
Even in the city's throng
The holy land of song.
The Spring, clothed like a bride,
I sought the woodlands wide.
It was a sound of joy!
As if I were a boy ;
“Come, be a child once more !"
Into the blithe and breathing air,
Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer !
Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue
Of tall and sombrous pines ; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue,
In long and sloping lines.
Like a fast-falling shower,
As once upon the flower.
Ye were so sweet and wild !
Thou art no more a child ! " The land of Song within thee lies,
Watered by living springs; The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,
It's clouds are angels' wings. “Learn, that henceforth thy song shall beg
Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea, Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heavens below.
"6 There is a forest, where the din
Of iron branches sounds!
Sees not its depths, nor bounds.
“Athwart the swinging branches cast,
Soft rays of sunshine pour;
It is past!
“Look, then, into thine heart, and write !
Yes, into life's deep stream!
Be these henceforth thy theme."
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls ! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls !
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Niglit,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
From those deep cisterns flows.
What man has borne before !
And they complain no more.
Descend with broad-winged flight, The w ome, the ice-prayed för, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
A PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
And things are not what they seem.
And the grave is not its goal ;
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
We can make our lives sublime,
Footprints on the sands of time;
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.
THERE is a reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
And the flowers that grow between.
“Have naught but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.".