Into the blithe and breathing air, Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Thou art no more a child! "The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living springs; The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Of iron branches sounds! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein, Sees the heavens all black with sin,Sees not its depths nor bounds. "Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour ; Then comes the fearful wintry blast; Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; Pallid lips say, 'It is past! We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright,Be these henceforth thy theme." HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls. I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before : Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. I heard the sounds of sorrow and Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe delight, The manifold, soft chimes, this prayer; Descend with broad-winged flight, That fill the haunted chambers of the The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. most fair, The best beloved Night! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ;Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. FOOTSTEPS WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Spake with us on earth no more! OF ANGELS. And with them the Being Beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep 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, O, though oft depress'd and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is "My Lord has need of these flowerets Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "Shall I have nought that is fai│"They shall all bloom in fields of light, saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love; Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? And earnest thoughts within me rise, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, Within my breast there is no light, I give the first watch of the night The star of the unconquered will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, Oh, fear not in a world like this, FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal being Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned field, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, And with childlike, credulous affection THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous | I have read, in the marvellous heart of tale, Some legend strange and vague, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, Proclaimed the morning prayer, Down the broad valley fast and far man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Entreats the soul to pray, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar |