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Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,

Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea

roars.

Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,

The threads of our two lives are woven in one.

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,
Whatever forbidden thau hast not gainsaid.
How in the turmoil of life can love stang,
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth,
and one hand!

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife;
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.
Annie of Tharaw, such is not ovr love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.
Whate'er my desire, in thine may be seen;

I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR.

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEX. FORMS of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above;

Yet I saw but one among them

Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle-wound about him,

As their robes the sowers wind.-
Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
Flowers and weeds of every kind.
And so stands calm and childlike,
High in wind and tempest wild';
Oh, where I like him exalted,
I would be like him, a child!

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THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL.
FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN.
ON the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,

Sees he how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron

A little bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring, With its beak it doth not cease, From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, Its Creator's Son release.

And the saviour speaks in mildness:
"Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy rood!"
And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Tongs like legends strange to hear,

THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. THE sea hath its pearls,

The heaven hath its stars

But my heart, my heart,

My heart hath its love.

Great are the sea and the heaven;
Yet greater is my heart,

And fairer than pearls and stars
Flashes and beams my love.

Thou little, youthful maiden,
Come unto my great heart;

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven,
Are melting away with love!

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THE NIGHT.

VOICES OF THE

PRELUDE.

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene..
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go;

Or where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose slooping caves
The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,
With one continuous sound,-

A slumbering sound,-a sound that brings
The feelings of a dream,-

As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,
Bright visions, came to me,
As wrapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,
Like ships upon the sea;

Dreams that the soul of youth engage,
Ere Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,
And chronicles of Eld

And, loving still these quaint old themes
Even in the city's throng

I feel the freshness of the streams,

That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,
The holy land of song.

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings
The Spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide.

The green trees whispered low and mild;
It was a sound of joy!

They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild;
Still they looked at me and smiled,
As if I were a boy;

And ever whispered mild and low,
Come be a child once more!"
And waved their long arms to and fro,

And beckoned solemnly and slow;
Oh, I could not choose but go
Into the woodlands hoar;

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.

And, falling on my weary brain,

Like a fast-falling shower.

The dreams of youth came back again;
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain;
As once upon the flower.

Vision of childhood! Stay. oh, stay!
Yet were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seemed to say,
"It cannot be! They pass away!
.Other themes demand thy lay:

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,
Its clouds are angels' wings.

"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,
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.
"There is a forest where the din
Of iron branches sounds!

A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein.
Sees the heavens all black with sin,-
Sees not its depths, nor bounds.

"Athwart the swinging branches cast,
Soft rays of sunshine pour;

Then comes the fearful wintry blast:
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast;
Pallid lips say. It is past!

We can return no more!'

"Look then, into thine heart and write!
Yes, into Life's deep stream!
All forms of sorrows and delight,
All solemn Voices of the Night,
That can soothe thee, or affright,-
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 skirt 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 Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-
From those deep cisterns flow.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!

Descend with broad-winged flight,

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most

fair,

The best-beloved Night!

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TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
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 not like dumb. driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act.-act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;-
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main.
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us. then. be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair ?" saith he: "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to

me,

I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled;

Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.'

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she would find them all again
In the fields of light above.

Oh. not in cruelty, not in pain,

The Reaper came that day:

"Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.

THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come. but not too soon; And sinking silently,

All silently the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars:

And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars."

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

Oh. no! from that blue tent above,

A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,.

Suspended in the evening skies
The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars;

I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

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Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly.
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

FLOWERS

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine:-
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part
Of the self-same universal being,
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gayly in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming,
Workings are they of the self-same power,
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield:

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of birds and beasts alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant.

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like
wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.
And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleagured the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
Nor drum, nor sentry's pace:
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army йed:
Uprose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read. in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan,
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The sceptral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray.

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning-star. Our ghostly fears are dead.

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