THE dead of night: earth seems but seemingThe soul seems but a something dreaming. The bird is dreaming in its nest, Of song, and sky, and loved one's breast; The lap-dog dreams, as round he lies, THE HYMN OF THE ANGELS. The child is dreaming of its toys- Of his life-dreams the sacrifice, Sees, as enthusiast only can, The truth that made him more than man; The earth is dreaming back her youth; My lovely one, when thou art nigh. THE HYMN OF THE ANGELS. THEY come from the ends of the earth, From the bounding breast of the tropic tide, From the east where first they dwelt, From the north, and the south, and the west, Where the sun puts on his robe of light, And lays down his crown to rest. PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. Out of every land they come; Where the palm triumphant grows, Where the vine o'ershadows the roofs and the hills, And the gold-orbèd orange glows; Where the olive and fig-tree thrive, And the rich pomegranates red, Where the citron blooms, and the apple of ill Bows down its fragrant head. From the lands where the gems are born; Opal and emerald bright; From shores where the ruddy corals grow, And the diamond rivers roll, And the marble white as the still moonlight They come with a gladdening shout; A thousand dwellings they leave, Dwellings but not a home; To them there is none but the sacred soil, And the land whereto they come. And the temple again shall be built, And filled as it was of yore; And the burden be lift from the heart of the world, And the nations all adore; Prayers to the throne of Heaven Morning and eve shall rise, And unto and not of the Lamb MOURN NOT FOR ME. PROMISE, dearest, when I die, Let not stone nor verse, nor aught Mark where rests-what loved and thought. If they ask thee where I lie, Say, within thy memory. Weep not thou o'er grave of mine, Sprinkle on it sparkling wine; That shall keep the grass all new, Like to an immortal dew; And some fallen star shall stay Heaven to thee, love, lends alone. Wake! the world's long week is past. Spirit! this is holiday; This is God's-the best and last. THE FAIR OF ALMACHARA. THE intolerant sun sinks down with glaring eye And upwards casts his robes to float on high, Slow rose the naked beauty of the moon And the pure Image that men's souls exalt, Stood high aloof from earth, as in some visioned swoon. |