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MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Yes, the Year is growing old.

And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold. Plncks the old man by the beard, Sorely,—sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling.

Solemuly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,

It is a sonnd of woe,

A sonnd of woe!

TIirough woods and monntain passes

The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting soleum masses,

Singing, "Pray for this poor sonl,

And the hooded clonds, like friai-s.

Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;—

lint their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather.

The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,
A king,—a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! Oh. the old man grey

Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low



These poems' were written for the most part during my college life, ami all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have fonnd their way into schools, and seem to be snccessful. Others lead a vagabond and precarions existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names, and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar oecasion, "I caunot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have negleeted, and aimost exposed, bronght from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a moi-e decorons garb."


When the warn sun that brings Seed-time and harvest has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well, When forest glades are teaming with bright

forms, Nor dark and many-folded clonds foretell

The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened monld The sapling draws its sustenance and thrives; Thongh stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly-war bled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colonred

wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

When the bright suuset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope

throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,
In the blne lake the sky, o'er-reachf ng far
Is hollowed ont, and the moon dips her horn,

And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide. Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows

throw, And the fair trees look over side by side,

And see themselves below.

Sweet April!—many a thonght Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are-wed; Nor shall they fail, till to its antuum bronght,

Life's golden fruit is shed.


With what a glory comes and goes the year!
The bnds of spring, those beantiful harbingers
Of suuny skies and clondless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread ont,
And when the silver habit of the clonds

Comes down upon the autuum sun, and with
A sober gladuess the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beantiful spirit breathing now
Its mellowed richuess on the clustered trees,
And from a beaker full of richest dyes.
Ponring new glory on the antuum woods.
And, dipping in warn light the pillared clonds.
Morn on the monntain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales
The gentle Wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the soleum woods of ash deep-crimsoned.
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Antuum, like a faint old man sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Throngh the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst alond
From cottage-roofs the warbling blne-bird sings;
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sonnds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

Oh, what a glory doth this world pnt on For him, who, with a fervent heart goes forth Under the bright and glorions sky, and looks On dnties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves. Shall have a voice and give him eloqnent

teachings. He shall so hear the soleum hyum, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place withont a tear.


When winter winds are piereing chill.
And throngh the hawthorn blows the gale,

With soleum feet I tread the hill
That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
Throngh the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing suubeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitndes.

Where, twisted ronnd the barren oak,
The summer vine in beanty clung,

And summer winds the stiliness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urus, mnte springs
Ponr ont the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings.
Ana voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene.
When birds sang ont their merry lay.

And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day

Bnt still wild umsic is abroad.

Pale, desert woods! within yonr crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse aecord.

Amid the vocal reeds pipe lond.

Chili airs aint wintry winds! my car
Ibis grown familiar witli yonr song;

1 hear it in the opening year,—
I listen, and it cheers mc long.



WnEN the dying flame of day
Throngh the chancel shot its ray.
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head;'

And the ceuser hurning swung,

Where, before the altar, hung

The Mood-red bauner, that with prayer

Had been cousecrated there. And the nuus' sweet hyum was heard the while Sung low in the dim, mysterions aisle. "Take thy bauner! May it wave

Prondly o'er the good and brave;

When the battle's distant wail

Breaks the Sabbath of onr vale,

When the clarion's umsic thrills

To the hearts of these lone hills.

When the spear in confiiet shakes,

And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy bauner! and, beneath
The battle-clond's encireling wreath,
Guard it!— till onr homes are free!
Guard it!—God will prosper tliec!
in the dark and trying honr.
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men.
His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy bauner! Bnt when night
Closes ronnd the ghastly tight,
If the vanquished warrior bow.
Spare him!—By onr holy vow.
By onr prayers and many tears,
By the merey that endears.
Spare him!—ho onr love hath shared!
Spare him!—as thon wonidst be spared!

"Take thy bauner!—and if e'er
Thon shonldst press the soldier s bier,
And the umffled drum shonld beat
To the tread of monrnful feet.
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shrond for thee.
The warrior took that bauner prond.
And it was his martial cloak and shrond

I Stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide areh
Was glorions with the sun's returning mareh,
And woods were brightened, and soft gales
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clonds were far beneath me;—bathed in

They gathered mid-way ronnd the wooded

And. in their fading-glory, shone
Like hosts in battle overthrown.
As many a piunacle, with shifting glance,
Throngh the grey mist thrust up its shattered

And rocking on the cliff was left
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.
The veil of clond was lifted, and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river s flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the White cascade;
Where, upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
I heard the distant waters dash.
I saw the current whirl and flash.—
And richiy, by the blne lake's silver beach
The woods were bending with a silent reach.

I Then o'er the vale, wllh gentle swell, ; The umsic of the village bill

'Game sweetly to tlie echo-giving hills;
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland

Was ringing to the merry shont.
That faint and far the glen scnt ont.
Where, auswering to the sndden shot, thin

Throngh thick-leaved branches, from the dingle

If thon art worn aml hard beset

With sorrows that thon wonidst forget.

If thon wonidst read u lesson that will keep

Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,

Go to the woods and hills!—No tears

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. Theee is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle sonth wind

blows; , . ,, , ,

Where, underneath the while-thorn in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their suuny paims ontspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thonght
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf,;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve
In monrning weeds, from ont the western gate,
Departs witli silent pace! That spirit moves,
In the green valley, where the sliver brook
From its full laver, ponrs the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods.
Slips down throngh moss-grown stone with end.

less laughter.
And freqnent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm.
And shonts the stern, strong wind. And here,

amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thonghts from

earth, .....

As to the suushine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted

bards , ....

Have ever loved the caim and quiet shades
For them there was an eloqnent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
Tlie flowers, the leaves, the river on its way.
Blne skies, and silver clonds, and gentle winds,—
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening goes.—
Groves, throngh whose broken roof the sky

looks in .'- M ,

Monntain, and shattered cliff, and suuny vale.
The distant lake, fonntaius—and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and in these wayward days of

yonth. My busy faney oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beanty That dwell in nature,—of the heaveuly forms We worship in onr dreams, and the soft hnes That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the

clonds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blne of Mav. is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her Blushes the richuess of an antuum sky. With ever-shifting beanty. Then her breath,

It is so like the gentle a ir of Spring,

As, from the morning s dcWy flowers, it comes

Full of their fragrance, that tt is a joy
To have it ronnd us,—and her silver voice
Is the rich umsic of a summer bird.
Heard in the still night, with its passionate ca-


On suuny slope and heecheu swell.
The shadowy light of evening fell:
And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory, that the wood receives,
At Suuset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light

Rose the blne hills. One clond of white,

Aronnd a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone;

An image of the silver lakes,

By which the Indian's sonl awakes.

Bnt soon a funeral hyum was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, grey forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,

And thirty suows had not yet sheu
Their glory on the warrior s head;
Bnt. as the summer fruit decays,
So died he in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebnck's skin
Covered the warrior, from within
Its heavy folds the weapous, made
For the hard toils of war, wTere laid:
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds.
And the broad belt of shells and beads

Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief.
Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his prond and martial dress,
Uncurbed, uureined, and riderless.
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came: and oft that eye so prond
Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief, they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed:
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart! One piereing neigh
Arose.—and, on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again.




Don Jorge Mauriqne. the anthor of the following poem, flonrished in the last half of the fifteenth centarv. He followed the profession of arms, umt died on the fleid of baitle. Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes hononrable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ccies; ami speaks of him as •'a yonth of estimable qualities, who in this war, gave brilliant proofs of his valonr. He died yonng; and was thus cnt off from long exereising his great virtnes, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genins, which was aiready known to fumc." He was mortally wonnded in a skirmish near Canavete. in the year 1479.

The name of Rodrigo Maariqne. the father of the poet, Conde de Predes and Maestre do Santiago, is well known in spanish history and song. He died in 1479; aecording to Mariana, in the town of Ucles; bnt, aecording to the poem of his son. in Ocana. It was his death which called forth the poem upon which rests the literary repntation of the yonnger Mauriqne. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Mauriqne, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beanties, rich embellishments of genins, and higli moral reflectious, monrned the death of his father as with a funeral hyum." This praise is not exaggeration. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beantiful; and, in aecordance with it, the style moves on—caim, diguitied, and majestic.

0 Let the sonl her slumbers break.

Let the thonght be quickened, and awake

Awake to sec

How soon this life is past and gone,

How death comes softiy stealing on,

How silently!

Swiftly onr pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;

The moments that r,re speeding fast
We heed not, bnt the past,—the past,—
More highiy prize.

Onward its conrse the present keeps,
Onward the coustant currents sweeps,
Till life is done:

And, did we jndge of time aright.
The past and fnture in their flight
Wonld be as one.

Let no one fondly dream again.
That Hope and all her shadowy train
Will not decay;

Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like u tale that's told
They pass away.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free,
To that unfathomed, bonndless sea.
The silent grave!

Thither all earthiy pomp and boast
ltoll. to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.

Thither the mighty torrents stray.
Thither the brook pursnes its way,
And tinkling rill.
There all are equal. Side bv side
The poor man and the t.uu of pride
Lie caim and still.

I will not here invoke the throng

Of orators Hiki sous of song.

The deathiess few;

Fletion entices and deceives.

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves.

Lies poisonons dew.

To One alone my thonghts arise.

The Eternal Trnth,—the Good and Wise,—

To Him I cry.

Who shared on earth onr common lot,

IUU the world comprehended not

His deity.

This world is bnt the rugged road
Which lends us to the bright abode
Of peace above:

So let us choose that narrow way.
Which lends no traveller's foot astray
From reaims of love.

Our cradle is the starting place,
In life we run the onward race,
And reach the goal;
When, in the mausious of the blest.
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary sonl.

Did we bnt use it as we onght,

This world wonld school each wandering thonght

To its high state.

Faith wings the sonl beyond the sky, .

Up to that better world on high.

For which we wait.

Yes, the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to onr home above,
The Savionr came;
Born amid mortal cares and fears,
He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth

The bubbles we pursne on earth.

The shapes we case.

Amid a world of treachery!

They vanish ere death shnts the eye,

And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us,—chances strange,

Disastrons aecidents, and change,

That come to all;

Even in the most exalted state.

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;

The strongest fall.

Tell me,—the charms that lovers seek
In the clear eye. and blushing cheek,
The hnes that play

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