TH

The Happy Hour.

HE life of man has wondrous hours Revealed at once to heart and eye, When wake all being's kindled powers, And joy, like dew on trees and flowers, With freshness fills the earth and sky. With finer scent and softer tone

The breezes wind through waving leaves ; By friendlier beams new tints are thrown On furrowed stem and mouldering stone: The gorgeous grapes, the jewelled sheaves To living glories turn;

And eyes that look from cottage eaves, Through shadows grim that jasmine weaves, With love and fancy burn.

The broad smooth river flames with waves,
Where floats the swan, an opal sprite,
And marble shapes on silent graves,
Seem starting towards the light.
The distant landscape glows serene;
The dark old tower, with tremulous sheen,
Pavilion of a seraph stands;

The mountain rude, with steeps of gold,
And mists of ruby o'er them rolled,

Up toward the evening star expands.

The ocean streaks, in distance gray,
With sapphire radiance sparkling play,
And silver sails hold on their way
To unseen fairy lands.

And those who walk within the sphere,
The plot of earth's transfigured green,

Like angels walk, so high, so clear,

With ravishment in eye and mien.

For this one hour no breath of fear,
Of shame or weakness, wandering near,
Can trusting hearts annoy :

Past things are dead, or only live
The life that hope alone can give,
And all is faith and joy.

'Tis not that beauty forces then
Her blessings on reluctant men,
But this great globe with all its might,
Its awful depth and heavenward height,
Seems but my heart with wonder thrilling,
And beating in my human breast ;
My sense with inspiration filling,
Myself beyond my nature blest.

Well for all such hours who know,
All who hail, not bid them go,
If the spirit's strong pulsation
After keeps its nobler tone,
And no helpless lamentation

Dulls the heart when rapture's flown:

If the rocky field of Duty,

Built around with mountains hoar,

Still is dearer than the Beauty

Of the sky-land's colored shore.

JOHN STERLING.

The Skeleton in Armor.

[Lines suggested by the Round Tower at Newport, in connection with the fact of an armed skeleton having been dug up at Fall River.]

PEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!

SPEA

Who, with thy hollow breast,

Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the northern skies
Gleam in December;
And like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart's chamber:

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.

'Far in the Northern land,
By the wide Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the ger-falcon ;
And, with my skates fast bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,

While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;

"She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled,

I was discarded!

Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew's flight?

Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me— Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen !—