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The breakers were right beneath her bows,

She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew

Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side

Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,

With the masts went by the board ;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,

Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow;
Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

Miscellaneous Poems,



Spanish Proverb.
The sun is bright, the air is clear, All things rejoice in youth and love,

The darting swallows soar and sing, The fulness of their first delight! And from the stately elms I hear

And learn from the soft heavens above The blue-bird prophesying Spring. The melting tenderness of night. So blue yon winding river flows, Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, It seems an oatlet from the sky,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; Where, waiting till the west wind blows, Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie. For 0! it is not always May! All things are new ;-the buds, the leaves, Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, To some good angel leave the rest; And even the nest beneath the eaves ; For time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest ! There are no birds in last year's nest


The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.


UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree He goes on Sunday to the church,
The village smithy stands ;

And sits among his boys;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

He hears the parson pray and preach, With large and sinewy hands ;

He hears his daughter's voice,
And the muscles of his brawny arms Singing in the village choir,
Are strong as iron bands.

And it makes his heart rejoice.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long, It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
His face is like the tan;

Singing in Paradise ! His brow is wet with honest sweat, He needs must think of her once more, He earns whate'er he can,

How in the grave she lies ;
And looks the whole world in the face, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
For he owes not any man.

A tear out of his eyes.
Week in, week out, from morn till night, Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing,
You can hear his bellows blow;

Onward through life he goes ;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Each morning sees some task begin,
With measured beat and slow,

Each evening sees it close ;
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, Something attempted, something done,
When the evening sun is low.

Has earned a night's repose. And children coming home from school Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Look in at the open door;

For the lesson thou hast taught ! They love to see the flaming forge, Thus at the flaming forge of life And hear the bellows roar,

Our fortunes must be wrought ; And catch the burning sparks that fly Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Like chat from a threshing floor. Each burning deed and thought.


The rising moon has hid the stars ;
Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green,

With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow

Upon the meadows low.
On snch a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,

When sleeping in the grove,

He dreamed not of her love. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought ;

Nor voice, nor sound betrays

Its deep, impassioned guze. It comes the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,
Are life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes

Of him who slumbering lies. 0, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 0, drooping souls whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,

Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,

Responds unto his own.
Responds—as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings ;

And whispers, in its song,
“Where bast thou stayed so long ?'

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow.


RIVER! that in silence windest

Through the meadows bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest

In the bosom of the sea !
Pour long years of mingled feeling,

Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing

Onward, like the stream of life. Thou hast taught me,

Silent River ! Many a lesson, deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver

I can give thee but a song. Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness

Overflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,

When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,

And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,

Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee

Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,

And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,

And have made thy margin dear.
More than this ;—thy name reminds me

Of three friends, all true and tried ;
And that name, like magic, binds me

Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers !

How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers

On the hearthstone of my heart ! 'Tis for this, thou Silent River !

That my spirit leans to thee ;
Tbou bast been a generous giver,

Take this idle song from me.


BLIND Bartimeus at the gates

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands Of Jericho in darkness waits ;

The crowd, “What wilt thou at my He hears the crowd ;-he hears a breath hands?" Say, “ It is Christ of Nazareth !" And he replies, “O give me light ! And calls in tones of agony,

Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight !” 'Ιησού, ελέησόν με /

And Jesus answers, 'Trays

| Η πίστις σου σίσωκί σε!
The thronging multitudes increase ; Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace !

In darkness and in misery,
But still, above the noisy crowd, Recall those mighty Voices Three,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 'Ιησού, ελέησόν με!
Until they say,

“ He calleth thee!” Θα σει, έγειραι, Τσαγε ! Θαρσει, έγειραι, φωνεί σε!

“Η πίστις σου σέσωκί σε !

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim; Then in Life's goblet freely press
And though my eyes with tears are dim, The leaves that give it bitterness,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, Nor prize the coloured waters less,
And chant a melancholy hymn

For in thy darkness and distress
With solemn voice and slow.

New light and strength they give !
No purple flowers, - no garlands green, And he who has not learned to know
Conceal the goblet's sbade or sheen, How false its sparkling bubbles show,
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, How bitter are the drops of woe,
Like gleams of sunsbine, flash between With which its brim may overflow,
Thick leaves of mistletoe.

He has not learned to live. This goblet, wrought with curious art, The prayer of Ajax was for light; Is filled with waters, that upstart,

Through all that dark and desperate fight, When the deep fountains of the heart,

The blackness of that noonday night, By strong convulsions rent apart, He asked but the return of sight, Are running all to waste.

To see his foeman's face.
And as it mantling passes round, Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, Be, too, for light, -for strength to bear
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned Our portion of the weight of care,
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, That crushes into dumb despair
And give a bitter taste.

One half the human race.
Above the lowly plants it towers, O suffering, sad humanity !
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, O ye atflicted ones who lie
And in an earlier age than ours

Steeped to the lips in misery,
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, Longing, and yet afraid to die,
Lost vision to restore.

Patient, though sorely tried ! It gave new strength, and fearless mood; I pledge you in this cup of grief, And gladiators, fierce and rude,

Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf, Mingled it in their daily food;

The Battle of our Life is brief, And he who battled and subdued, The alarm, -the struggle,- the relief,A wreath of fennel wore.

Then sleep we side by side.

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