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A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.
This is the place. Stand still, roy steed,
Let me review the scene,
The forms that once have been.
The Past and Present here unite
Beneath Time's flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook,
Bnt seen on either side.
Here ruus the highway to the town;
There the green lane descends, Throngh which I walked to chureh with thee,
O gentlest of my friends!
The shadow of the linden-trees
Lay moving on the grass;
A shadow, thon didst pass.
Thy dress was like the lilies,
And thy heart as pure as they; One of God's holy messengers
Did walk with me that day,
I saw the branches of the trees
Bend down thy tonch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass
Rise up to kiss thy feet.
"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born!" Solemuly sang the village choir
On that sweet Sabbath morn.
Throngh the closed blinds the golden sun
Ponred in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen
By Jacob in his dream.
And ever and anon, the wind,
Sweet-scented with the hay. Turned o'er the hyum-book's flnttering leaves,
That on the window lay.
Long was the good man's sermon,
Yet it seemed not so to me:
And still I thonght of thee.
Long was the prayer he nttered,
Yet it seemed not so to me;
And still I thonght of thee.
Bnt now, alas! the place seems changed;
Thon art no longer here.
With thee did disappear.
Thongh thonghts, deep-rooted in my heart,
Like pine-trees dark and high. Subdne the light of noon, and breathe
Alow and ceaseless sigh;
This memory brighteus o'er the past,
As when the sun, concealed
Shines on a distant fiefil.
THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD
This is the Arsenal. From floor tc ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
Bnt from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sonnd will rise, how wild and
I hear even now the infinite fieree chorus,
Which, throngh the ages that have gone before
On heim and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Throngh CImbrIc forest roars the Norseman's song.
And lond, amid the universal clamonr.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;
The tuumlt of each sacked and burning village;
The shont that every prayer for merey drowus; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wall of famine in beleagnered towus;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, ,
The rattling umsketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the caunonade.
Is it, O man, with snch discordant noises,
Thou downest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
Wore half the power, that fills the world with terror. Were halt the wealth, bestowed on camps and conrts. Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts.
The warrior's name wonld be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that shonld lift again Its hand agaiust a brother on its forehead
Wonld wear for evermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark fnture, throngh long generatious, The echoing sonnds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibratious, I hear once more the voice of Christ say b1 Peace!"
!oaee I and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
Bit beantiful as songs of the immortals,
Is tht valley of the Pcguitx, where across broad
neadow-lands Rise the blne Francoulan monntaius, Nuremberg, tie ancient, stands.
Quaint old town of toil and traffie, quaint old
town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the
rooks that ronnd them throng:
Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rongh and bold,
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;
And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in
their unconth rhyme, That their great Imperial city stretched its hand
throngh every clime.i°
in the conrt-yard of the castle, bonnd with many
au iron band. Stands the mighty linden planted by Qneen
Cunigunde s hand;
On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.!i
Everywhere I see aronnd mo rise the wondruus world of Art:
Fonntaius wronght with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;
And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone.
By a former age commissioned as apostles to onr own.
In the chureh of sainted Sebald sleeps eushrined
his holy dust,iAnd in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from
age to age their trust;
in the chureh of sainted Lawrence stands a pix
of sculpture rare,!3 Like the foamy sheaf of fonntaius, rising throngh
the painted air.
Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart.
Lived and labonred Aibrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;
Hence in silence and in sorrow, tolling still with
busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the
Emigravit is the iuscription on the tomb-stone
where he lies; Dead he is not,—bnt departed,—for tho artist
Fairer seems the ancient city, and the suushine
seems more fair. That he once had trod its pavement, that he once
had breathed its air;
Throngh these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,
Walked of yore tho Master singers, chanting rnde poetic straius.
From remote and suuless suburbs, came they to
the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great Temple, as in
sponts the swallows build.
As the weaver plied the shnttle, wove he too
the mystic rhyme. And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;
Thanking God, whose bonndless wisdow makes
the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust ami cinders, in the tissnes of
Here Haus Sachs, the cubler-poet, laureate of
the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Musters,!* in huge
folios sang and laughed.
Bnt his honse is now an ale-honse, with a nicely
sanded floor. And a garland in tho window, and his face
above the door;
Painted by some humble artists, as in Admn
Puschman's song,'* As the old man grey and dove-like, with his
great white beard and long.
And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his eark and care,
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antiqne chair
Vanished is the ancient splendonr, and before
my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a
Not thy Conncils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee
the world's regard; Bnt thy painter, Aibrecht Dilrer, and Haus
Sachs, thy cobbler bard.
Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region
far away, As he paced thy streets and conrt-yards, sang in
far away e paced tr. thonght his careless lay;
Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a
floweret of the soil. The nobility of labonr,—the long pedigree of toll.
THE NORMAN BARON. Daus les moments de la vie oh la reflexion devient plus caime et phis profonde, on l'int^ret et l'avarice parlent moius haul que la raison, daus les iustants de chagrin domestiqnc, de mulatto, et de p6ril do mort. les nobles se repentirent de possgder des serfs, comtne d'unc chose pen agreablc a Dien, qui avaii cre"e" tons les hommes a son image.
THIEEEr: ConQUETE DE L'angleteeee.
In his chamber, weak and dying,
In this fight was Death the gainer,
By his bed a monk was seated,
And, amid the tempest pealing.
In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held, that night, their Christinas wassail;
Many a carol, old and saintly,
Sang the miustrels and the whits.
And so lond these Saxon glecmen
Till at length the lays they chaunted
Reached the chamber terror-haunted,
Where the monk, with aecents holy,
Whispered at the baron's ear.
Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
Turned his weary head to hear.
"Wassail for the kingly stranger
And the lightning showed the sainted
In that honr of deep contrition,
All the pomp of earth had vanished.
Every vassal of his bauner.
And, as on the sacred missal
Many centuries have been numbered
Bnt the good deed, throngh the ages
RAIN IN SUMMER.
How beantiful is the rain I
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs!
How it gushes and struggles ont
From the throat of the overflowing spont 1
Across the window-pane
It ponrs and ponrs;
And swift and wide
With a mnddy tide,
Like a river down the gntter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows caim again.
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
Frem the neighbonring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treachernus pool
Engulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
TO A CHILD.
Deae child ! how radiant on thy mother's kuee,
With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles.
Thon gazest at the painted tiles, •
Whose figures grace.
With many a grotesqne form and face.
The ancient chiumey of thy nursery!
The lady with the gay macaw.
The dancing-girl, the great bashaw
With bearded lip and chin;
And, loaning idly o'er his gate,
Beneath the imperial fan of state.
The Chinese mandarin.
Wth what a look of prond command
And thus for thee, O little child.
Throngh many a danger and escape.
The tall ships passed the stormy cape;
For thee in foreign lands remote,
Beneath the burning, tropic skits.
The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat,
Himself as swift and wild,
In falling, clntched the frail arbntc,
The fibres of whose shallow root,
Uplifted from the soil, betrayed
The silver veius beneath it laid.
The buried treasures of dead centuries.
Bnt, lo! thy door is left ajar!
Thon liearest footsteps from afar!
And, at the sonnd.
Thon tamest ronnd
With quick and qnestioning eyes,
Like one, who, hi a foreigu land,
Beholds on every hand
Some sonree of wonder and surprise!
And, restlessly, impatiently,
Thon strivest, strugglest to be free.
The fonr walls of thy nursery
Are now like prison walls to thee.
No more thy mother's smiles,
No more the painted tiles.
Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor,
That won thy little, beatingheart before;
Thon struggles! for the open door.
Throngh these once solitary halls
Thv pattering footstep falls.
The sonnd of thy merry voice
Makes the old walls
Jubilant, and they rejoice
With the jey of thy yonng heart,
O'er the light of whose gladuess
No shadows of saduess
From the sombre backgronnd of memory start.
Once, ah, once, within these walls.
Bnt what are these grave thonghts to thee?
Ont, ont! into the open air!
Thy ouly dream is liberty,
Thon carest little how or where.
I see thee eager at thy play.
Now shonting to the apples on the tree,
With cheeks as ronnd and red as they;
And now among the yellow stalks.
Among the flowering shrubs and plants,
As restless as the bee.
Along the garden walks.
The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace;
And see at every turn how they efface
Whole villages of sand-roofed tents,
That rise like golden domes
Above the cavernous and secret homes
Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants.
Ah. crnel little Tamerlane.
Who, with thy dreadful reigu,
Dost persecnte and overwheim
These hapless Troglodytes of thy reaim!
What! tired aiready! with those suppliant
O Child! O new-born denizen
Here at the portal thon dost stand.
1 see its valves expand.
Into those reaims of love and hate,
Into that darkness blank and drear,
By some prophetic feeling taught,
I launched the bold, adventurons thonght,
Freighted with hope and fear;
As upon subterranean streams.
In caverus unexplored and dark,
Men sometimes launch a fragile bark,
Laden with flickering fire.
And watch its swift-receding beams.
Until at length they disappear,
And in the distant dark expire.
By what astrology of fonv or hope
Dare I to cast thy horoscope!
Like the new moon thy life appears;
A little strip of silver light.
And widening ontward into night
The shadowy disk of fnture years,
And yet upon its onter rim,
A luminons cirele, faint and dim,
And scareely visible to us here,
Ronnds and completes the perfeet sphere;
A propheey and intimation,
A pale and feeble adumbration,
Of the great world of light, that lies
Behind all human destinies.
Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught,
And if a more auspicions fate
To linger by the labonrer's side;
Nor to thyself the task shall be
Withont reward; for thon shalt learn
The wisdom early to discern
Trne beanty in ntility;
As great Pythagoras of yore.
Standing beside the blacksmith's door.
And hearing the hammers, as they smote
The anvils with a different note,
Stole from the varying tones, that hung
Vibrant on every iron tongne.
The secret of the sonnding wire,
And formed the seven-corded lyre.
Enongh! I will not play the Seer;
THE OCCULTATION OF ORION.
I Saw, as in a dream sublime.
The balance in the hand of Time.
O'er East and West its beam impended;
And day, with all its honrs of light,
Was slowly sinking ont of sight.
While, opposite, the scale of night
Silently with the stars ascended.
Like the astrologers of eld,
In that bright vision I beheld
Greater and deeper mysteries.
I saw, with its celestial keys,
Its chords of air. its frets o'f fire,
The Samian's great JEolian lyre,
Rising throngh all its sevenfold bars.
From earth unto the fixed stars.
And throngh the dewy atmosphere,
Not ouly conld I see, bnt hear,
Its wondrons and harmonions strings,
In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere,
From Dlan's cirele light and near,
Onward to vaster and wider rings,
Where, chaunting throngh his beard of suows,
Majestie, monrnful, Saturn goes,
And down the suuless reaims of space
Reverberates the thunder of his bass.
Beneath the sky's trinmphal areh
Sirins was rising in the east;
The moon was pallid, bnt not faint;
Thus moving on, with silent pace.
Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat
The forehead of the bull; bnt he
Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
When, blinded by GSnopion,
He songht the blacksmith at his forge,
And, climbing up the monntain gorge,
Flxed his blank eyes upon the sun.
Then throngh the silence overhead,
I Stood on the bridge at miduight.
And the moon rose o'er the city.
I saw her bright reflexion
In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay. And the current that came from the ocean,
Seemed to lift and bear them away.
As, sweeping and eddying throngh them
Rose the belated tide,
The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, oh, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, ob, how often
Wonld bear me away on its bosom
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I conld bear.
Bnt now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea!
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odonr of brine from the ocean Comes the thonght of other years.
And I thihk how many thonsands
Of care-eneumbered men,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
1 see the long procession
Still passing to and fro.
And the old subdned and slow \