Where, as the Benedictine laid

His palm upon the convent's guest, The single boon for which he prayed Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.

Pence dwells not here, this rugged

face Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose

The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes, Dread scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth;

Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,

The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now:
Before his name the nations bow;

His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.

DIRGE

FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE

Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his

cover;

Make his mound with hers who called himn once her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;

Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,

Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it.
Where the bee will dine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover;

Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;

Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

THE handful here, that once was Mary's earth,

Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul,

That, when she died, all recognized her birth,

And had their sorrow in serene control.

"Not here! not here !" to every mourner's

heart

The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier;

And to another she who sent

I

That splendid toy, an empty purse-
gave, though not for satire meant,
An emptier thing—a scrap of verse;

For thee I chose Diana's head,

Graved by a cunning hand in Rome, To whose dim shop my feet were led By sweet remembrances of home.

'T was with a kind of pagan feeling

That I my little treasure bought, My mood I care not for concealing, "Great is Diana !" was my thought.

Methought, howe'er we change our creeds,
Whether to Jove or God we bend,
By various paths religion leads

All spirits to a single end.

The goddess of the woods and fields,
The healthful huntress, undefiled,
Now with her fabled brother yields
To sinless Mary and her Child.

"LIKE AS THE LARK"

Quale allodetta che in aere si spazia
Prima cantando, e poi tace, contenta,
Dell' ultima dolcezza che la sazia.

DANTE: Paradiso, XX.

LIKE as the lark that, soaring higher and higher,

Singeth awhile, then stops as 't were con

tent

With his last sweetness, having filled desire,

So paused our bard; not for his force was spent,

Nor that a string was loosened in his lyre,

But, having said his best and done his best, He could not better what was given before,

And throescore years and ten, demanding rest,

Whispered, They want thee on the other

shore!

And now he walks amid the learned throng, Haply with him who was the sixth of

those

Who towered above the multitude in song,

Or by the side of Geoffrey Chaucer goes, Who shall remember with his wonted smile

How James found music in his antique style.

But we'll not mingle fancies with our sor

row

Nor from his own imagination borrow; Holmes, who is left us, best could speak his praise

Who knew his heart so well and loved his lays,

I come down to my dwelling by the sea And look from out the lattice on the night! There the same glories burn serene and bright

As in my boyhood; and if I am old
Are they not also? Thus my spirit is
bold

To think perhaps we are coeval. Who
Can tell when first my faculty began
Of thought? Who knows but I was
there with you

When first your Maker's mind, celestial spheres,

Contrived your motion ere I was a man? Else, wherefore do mine eyes thus fill with

O YE SWEET HEAVENS !

O YE sweet heavens! your silence is to me More than all music. With what full de

light

In alternations of sublime repose,
Musical motion, the perpetual play
Of every faculty that Heaven bestows
Through the bright, busy, and eternal

day.