But what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more.

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,
Take, I give it willingly;

For invisible to thee,

Spirits twain have crossed with me.

LUDWIG UHLAND.

(Anonymous Translation.)

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,

In the old likeness that I knew,

I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye,
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do :-
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

O to call back the days that are not!

My eyes were blinded, your words were few;
Do
you know the truth now up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas,
Not half worthy the like of you;

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew,
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

Footsteps of Angels.

WH

HEN the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul that slumbered
To a holy, calm delight-

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor wall-

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;

The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more!

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife-

By the roadside 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.

311

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!

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Heroes.

'HE winds that once the Argo bore

THE

Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines :

And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor,

Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. You may seek her crew on every isle

Fair in the foam of Ægean seas;

But out of their rest no charm can wile
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.

And Priam's wail is heard no more
By windy Ilion's sea-built walls;
Nor great Achilles, stained with gore,

Cries "O ye gods, 't is Hector falls!"

HEROES.

On Ida's mount is the shining snow;

But Jove has gone from its brow away; And red on the plain the poppies grow

Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day

Mother Earth, are the heroes dead?

Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?
Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red
All that is left of the brave of yore?
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,
Far in the young world's misty dawn?
Or to teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?
Mother Earth, are the heroes gone?

Gone? In a grander form they rise!

Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their clearer eyes,

And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done,

'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred; Wherever the Right has a triumph won,

There are the heroes' voices heard.

Their armor rings on a fairer field

Than the Greek or the Trojan ever trod : For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, And the light above is the smile of God. So in his isle of calm delight

Jason may sleep the years away;

For the heroes live, and the skies are bright,

And the world is a braver world to-day.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

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The Difference.

A LITTLE river with its rock-laid banks

In somber elm and laughing linden dressed,
A setting sun behind their highest ranks,
A light skiff floating on the river's breast.

You must remember yet that fair June day!
It was a time when setting suns said less
Of speeding time and glorious things' decay,
And vacant watches through the sunlessness;

But more of newer sun and fresher dawn,
More of the inner glories hinted through
The orange gates of sunset half withdrawn,
And burning inward as the glory grew.

You know we talked philosophy—or thought
We did; and flippantly aside we threw
All that the solemn-thoughted prophets taught,
All that the glorious-visioned exile drew.

The untaught record of their simple page
Whose footsteps paced with His the morning-land,
As rude inscriptions of a younger age,
Unworthy of the ripe world's freer hand.

A whiter light should rise upon the years,

A freer wave should break on every strand, The New assuage the Old World's toils and tears, The West should tell it to the morning-land.

But many suns since then have died in flame,
And many skies for them been sable-clad :
The quiet stream moves onward still the same,
With shades to chill, and dawns to make it glad.