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They grappled with their prize,
At miduight black and cold! As of a rock was the shock;
Heavily the gronnd-swell rolled.
Sonthward throngh day and dark,
They drift in close embrace, With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main;
Yet there seems no change of place.
Sonthward, for ever sonthward,
And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream
The rocky ledge ruus far into the sea,
The lighthonse lifts its massive masoury,
Even at this distance I can sec the tides,
A speechiess wrath, that rises and subsides
And as the evening darkeus, lo! how bright.
Beams forth the sndden radiance of its light
Not one alone; from each projeeting cape
Starts into life, a dim, gigantic shape,
Like the great giant Christopher it stands
Wading far ont among the rocks and sands,
And the great ships sail ontward and return.
And ever joyful, as they sec it burn, They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.
They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
Gleam for a moment ouly in the blaze, And eager faces as the light unveils.
Gaze at the tower, and vanish whilo they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child,
On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; And when, returning from adventures wild,
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.
Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
Burus on for evermore that qnenchiess flame,
It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
The rocks and sea-sand whli the kiss of peace, It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. The startled waves leap over it; the storm
Smites it with all the sconrges of the rain, And steadily agaiust its solid form
Press the great shonlders of the hurricane.
The sea-bird wheeling ronnd it, with the din
Blinded and maddened by the light within.
A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
Still grasping in bis hand the fire of Jove, It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
Bnt hails the mariner with words of love. "Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ve stately ships!
And with yonr floating bridge the ocean span; Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse.
Be yours, to bring man nearer unto man!'''
THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.
We sat within the farm-honse old.
Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,
Not far away we saw the port,—
The light-honse,—the dismantled fort,—
We sat and talked until the night,
Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight,
Our voices ouly broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene.
Of what had been, and might have been.
And all that fills the hearts of friends.
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
The first slight swerving of the heart.
And leave it still uusaid in part,
The very tones in which we spake
The leaves of memory seemed to make
Oft died the words upon onr lips,
As snddeuly from ont the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships.
The flames wonld leap and Jhen expire.
And, as their splendonr flashed and failed,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
The windows, rattling in their frames,—
The ocean, soaring up the beach,
All mingled vagnely in onr speech.
Until they made themselves a part
The long-lost ventures of the heart,
O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
They were indeed too mnch akin,
The thonghts that burned and glowed within.
BY THE FIRESIDE.
Theee is no flock, however watched nitd tended,
Bnt one dead lamb is there!
Bnt has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflietions
Not from the gronnd arise,
Assume this dark disguise.
We sec bnt dimly throngh the mist and vaponrs.
Amid these earthiy damps.
May be licaren> distant lamps.
There is no l)eatht What seems so is trausition;
This life of mortal breath
Whose portal vve call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of onr affection,—
Bnt gone nnto that school Where she no longer needs onr poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rnle.
ln that great cloister's stiliness and seclnsion,
By gnardian angels led. Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollntion,
She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing
ln those bright realms of air: Year after year, her tender steps pnrsning,
Behold her grown more fair.
Tims do we walk with her, and keep nubroken
The bond which natnre gives, Thinking that onr remembrance, thongh nnspoken,
May reach Her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptnres wild, ln onr embraces we again enfold her.
She will not be a child;
Bnt a fair maiden, in her Father's mausion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
Shall we behold her face.
And thongh at times impetnons with emotion
And angnish long snppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean.
That caunot be at rest,—
We will be patient, and assnage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
The grief that umst have way.
Working in these walls of Time,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing nseless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
Strengtheus and snpports the rest.
For the strnctnre that we raise.
Time is with materials filled;
Are the blocks with which we bnild.
Trnly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
ln the elder days of Art,
Bnilders wronght with greatest care
For the Gods see everywhere.
Both the nuseen and the seen;
Beantifnl, entire, and clean.
Else onr lives are incomplete.
Standing in these walls of Time,
Stnmble as they seek to climb.
Bnild to-day, then, strong and snre,
With a firm and ample base;
Shall to-morrow find lts place.
Tlms alone can we attain
Sees the world as one vast plain.
SAND OF THE DESERT lX AN HOUR-
A Handful of red sand from the hot clime
Of Arab deserts bronght,
The minister of Thonght. ^
How many weary centnries has it been
Abont those deserts blown!
How many histories known!
Perhaps the camels of the lshmaclitc
Trampled and passed it o'er,
His favonrite son they bore.
Perhaps the feet of Moses, bnrnt and bare,
Crnshed it beneath their tread;
Scattered it as they sped;
Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
Held close in her caress,
lllnmed the wilderness;
Or anchorites beneath Engaddl's palms
Pacing the Red Sea beach,
ln half-articnlate speech;
Or caravaus, that from Bassora's gate
With westward steps depart;
And resolnte of heart!
These have passed over it, or may have passed;
Now in this crystal tower lmprisoned by some cnrions hand at last,
lt connts the passing honr.
And as l gaze, these narrow walls expand;
Before my dreamy eye
lts nnimpeded sky.
And borne aloft by the snstaining blast,
This little golden thread
A form of fear and dread.
And onward, and across the setting snn,
Across the bonndless plain,
Till thonght pnrsnes in vain.
The vision vanishes! These walls again
Shnt ont the lnrid snn,
The half-honr's sand is rnn.
BlRDS OF PASSAGE.
Blacr shadows fall
And from the realms
Bnt the night is fair.
And above, in the light
I hear the beat
I hear the cry
Oh, say not so
They are the throngs
Murumrs of pleasures, and paius, and wrongs,
This the cry
From their distant flight
THE OPEN WINDOW
The old honse by the lindeus
Stood silent in the shade.
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
They were no longer there. ,
The large Newfonndland honse-dog
Was standing by the door;
They walked not under the lindeus,
Bnt sliadow, and silence, and saduess,
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
Will be heard in dreams alone 1
And tke boy that walked beside me,
He conld not understand.
I pressed his warm, soft hand I
KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN.
Witlaf, a king of the Saxous,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
His drinking-horn beqneathed,—
That, whenever they sat at their revels,
They might remember the donor.
So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the sonl of Witlaf,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore.
They remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the puipit;
The legend of good Saint Cinthiae,
Till the great bells of the convent,
Gnthiac and Bartholomams
And the-Yule-log cracked in the chiumey,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered, Bnt the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers
lie clntched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving.
Had sunk and dissolved his sonl.
Bnt not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore.
We umst drink to one Saint more!"
By his evening fire the artist
Baffled, weary, and disheartened,
'Twas an image of the Virgin
Bnt alas! his fair ideal
From a distant Eastern island
Day and night the anxions master
Till, disconraged and desponding,
Sat he now in shadows deep, And the dav's humiliation
Fonnd oblivion in sleep.
Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master!
From the burning brand of oak Shape the thonght that stirs within thee!'
And the startled artist woke,—
Woke, and from the smoking embers
And therefrom lie carved an image,
O thon sculptor, painter, poet!
Take this lesson to thy heart; That is best which lieth nearest;
Shape from that thy work of art.
PEGASUS IX POUND.
Once into a quiet village.
Withont haste and withont heed, In the golden prime of morning.
Strayed the poet's winged steed.
It was Antuum, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.
Load the clamorons bell was ringing
'Twas the daily call to labonr.
Not the less he saw the landscape,
In its gleaming power veiled;
That the dying leaves exhaled.
Thus, upon the village common,
And the wise men,*in their wisdom,
Then the sombre village crier.
Ringing lond his brazen bell. Wandered down the street proclaiming
There was an estray to sell.
And the curions conntry people,
Rich and poor, and yonng and old. Came in haste to see this wondrons
Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening
Fell with vaponrs cold and dim; Bnt it bronght no food nor shelter.
Bronght no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expeetant.
Looked he throngh the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,
Saw the tranquil, patient stars;
Till at length the bell at miduight
Sonnded from its dark abode. And, from ont a neighbonring farm-yard
Lond the cock Aleetryon crowed. Then, with nostrils wide distended,
Breaking from his iron chain, And unfolding far his pinious,
To those slurs he soared again.
Woke to all its toil and rare,
And they knew not when nor where.
Bnt they fonnd upon the greeusward
Where his struggling hoofs bad trod, Phfc and bright, a fountain flowing
From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that honr, the fonnt unfailing
Gladdeus the whole region ronnd. Strengthening all who drink its waters,
While it soothes them with its sonnd.
I Heaed a voice that cried,
I saw the pallid corpse
Of the dead sun
Borne throngh the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim
Lifted the sheeted mists
Aronnd him as he passed
And the voice for over cried,
"Balder the Beantiful
Is dead, is dead!'
And died away
Throngh the dreary night,
In aecents of despair.
Balder the Beantiful
All things in earth and air
Hceder, the blind old God,
They laid him in his ship,
They launched the burning shin.
It floated far away
Over the misty sen.
Till like the sun it seemed.
Sinking beneath the waves
Balder returned no more!
So perished the old Gods!
Build it again
O ye bards,
Fairer than before!
Ye fathers of the new race,
Feed upon morning dew,
Sing the new Song of Love I
The law of foree is dead!
on MRS. KEMBle'S READINGS FROM SIIAKSPERE.
p r-REcrous evenings! all too swiftly speed i
read, Interpreting by tones the wondrons pages Of the great poet who foreruus the ages. Anticipating all that shall be said! O happy reader! having for thv text a he magic book, whoso Sybiliine leaves have
The second, with a bearded face,
A grey, old man, the third and last,
And those who heard the singers three
Dispnted which the best might be;
For still their umsic seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.
Bnt the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, bnt in degree;
l gave a varions gift to each,
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.
"These are the three great chords of might,
Tare them, O Death! and bear awny Whatever thon caust call thine own;
Thine image, stamped npon this clay, Doth give thee that, bnt that alone!
Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded npon thy narrow shelves, As garments by the sonl laid by.
And precions only to onrselves! Take them, O great Eternity!
Onr little life is bnt a gnst, That bends the branches of thy tree,
And trails its blossoms in the dnst!
FOR MT BROTHER'S ORDINATION.
CnRiST to the yonng man said: "Yet one thing more;
lf thon wonldst perfect be,
And come and follow me!"
Those sacred words hath said,
Laid on a yonng man's head.
The nuseen Christ shall move,
"Dost thon, dear Lord, approve?" Beside hira at the marriage feast shall be,
To make the scene more fair; Beside him in the dark Gethsemano
Of pain and midnight prayer,
O holy trnst! O endless seuse of rest!
Like the beloved Joim
And tims to lonrney on l
THE BLlND GlRL OF CASTEL-CUlLLE.
FROM THE GASCON OF JASMlN.
Only the Lowland tongne of Scotland might
At the foot of the monntain height
Where is perehed Castel-Cnille, When the apple, the plnm, and the almond-tree,
ln the plain below were growing white,
Tills is the song one might pereeive On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:
"The roads shonld blossom, the roads shonld
bloom. So fair a bride shonld leave her home! Shonld blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"
This old Te Denm, rnstic rites attending,
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye.
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;
Resembling there, so near nnto the sky,
And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hill-side steep,
They wind aslant
Towards saint Anant,
Throngh leafy alleys
Of verdnrons valleys,
With merry sallies
Singing their chant:
"The roads shonld blosson, the roads shonld
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
The snn of Mareh was shining brightly.
lts breathings of perfnme.
When one beholds the dnsky hedges blossom,
To sonnds of loyons melodies.
Meanwhile, whence comes it that among These yonthfnl maideus fresh and fair, So loyons, with snch langhing air, Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongne? And vet the bride is fair and yonng! ls it Saint Joseph wonld say to ns all, That love, o'erhasty precedeth a fall? Oh, no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, Never bore so lofty a brow! What lovers! they give not a single caress To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one wonld say. What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress? lt is, that half-way np the hill, ln yon cottage, by those walls Stand the cart-honse and the stalls, Dwelleth the blind orphan still, Danghter of a veteran old; And yon umst know, one year ago. That Margaret, the yonng and tender, Was the village pride and splendonr, And Baptiste hor <over bold.