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And the Libyan kneels, as he meets her eye,

Like the flash of an eastern star! The gales may not be heard,

Yet the silken streamers quiver, And the vessel shoots, like a brightplumed bird,

Away down the golden river!

Away by the lofty mount,

And away by the lonely shore, And away by the gushing of many a fount,

Where fountains gush no more! — Oh, for some warning vision there,

Some voice that should have spoken Of climes to be laid waste and bare

And glad young spirits broken! Of waters dried away,

And hope and beauty blasted! That scenes so fair and hearts so gay

Should be so early wasted!


Farewell! since nevermore for thee The sun comes up our earthly skies,

Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be leyes. To some fond hearts and saddened

There are who, for thy last long sleep,

Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, Must weep because thou canst not weep,

And grieve that all thy griefs are o"er.

Sad thrift of love!—the loving breast, Whereon thine aching head was thrown,

Gave up the weary head, to rest,
But kept the aching for its own,

Till pain shall find the same low bed
That pillows now thy painless head,
And following darkly through the
night, [light.
Love reach thee by the founts of

Thomas Heywood.


Pack clouds away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft.

To give my love good-morrow, Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird,prune thy wing,nightingale,sing, To give my love good-morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,

Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow. Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow; You pretty elves, among yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow.

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How oft in visions of the night,
How oft in noonday dreaming,
I've seen, fair lake, thy forest wave,—
Have seen thy waters gleaming;
Have heard the blowing of the winds
That sweep along thy highlands,
And the light laughter of the waves
That dance around thine islands.

It was a landscape of the mind,
With forms and hues ideal,
But still those hues and forms ap-

More lovely than aught real.
I feared to see the breathing scene,
And brooded o'er the vision,
Lest the hard touch of truth should

A picture so Elysian.

But now I break the cold distrust Whose spells so long had bound me; The shadows of the night are past,— The morning shines around me.

And in the sober light of day,
I see, with eyes enchanted,
The glorious vision that so long
My day and night dreams haunted.

I see the green, translucent wave,
The purest of earth's fountains:
I see the many-winding shore, —
The double range of mountains:
One, neighbor to the flying clouds,
And crowned with leaf and blossom,
And one, more lovely, borne within
The lake's unruffled bosom.

O timid heart! with thy glad throbs
Some self-reproach is blended.
At the long years that died before
The sight of scene so splendid.
The mind has pictures of its own,
Fair trees and waters flowing —
But not a magic whole like this,
So living, breathing, glowing;

Strength imaged in the wooded hills,
A grand, primeval nature.

And beauty mirrored in the lake,

A gentler, softer feature;

A perfect union, — where no want

Upon the soul is pressing;

Like manly power and female grace

Made one by bridal blessing.

Nor is the stately scene without
Its sweet, secluded treasures,
Where hearts that shun the crowd

may find Their own exclusive pleasures; Deep chasms of shade for pensive

thought, The hours to wear away in; And vaulted aisles,of whispering pine, For lovers' feet to stray in;

Clear streams that from the uplands run,

A course of sunless shadow;
Isles all unfurrowed by the plough,
And strips of fertile meadow;
And rounded coves of silver sand,
Where moonlight plays and glances,—
A sheltered hall for elfin horns,
A floor for elfin dances.

No tame monotony is here,
But beauty ever changing;

With clouds, and shadows of the clouds,

And mists the hillsides ranging. Where morning's gold, and noon's

hot sun, Their changing glories render; Pour round the shores a varying


Now glowing and now tender.

But purer than the shifting gleams
By liberal sunshine given,
Is the deep spirit of that hour, —
An effluence breathed from heaven;
When the unclouded, yellow moon
Hangs o'er the eastern ridges,
And the long shaft of trembling

The trembling crystal bridges.

Farewell, sweet lake! brief were the hours

Along thy banks for straying;

But not farewell what memory

An image undecaying.
I hold secure beyond all change
One lovely recollection,
To cheer the hours of lonely toil.
And chase away dejection.

Charles Fenno Hoffman.


We were not many, — we who stood

Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed

In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed

Their dying shouts at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept. Through walls of flame, its withering way;

Where fell the dead, the living stept,

Still charging on the guns which swept

The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay,

We swooped his flanking batteries past,

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[From Bitter-Sweet.]

Day will return with a fresher boon;

God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon;

God will remember the world!

Evil is only the slave of Good;

Sorrow the servant of Joy; And the soul is mad that refuses food

Of the meanest in God's employ.

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs;

The deepest griefs and the wildest fears

Have holiest ministries.

Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm;

Safely the flower sleeps under the snow;

And the farmer's hearth is never warm

Till the cold wind starts to blow.

Day will return with a fresher boon;

God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon;

God will remember the world!

[From Bitter-Sweet.]


What is the little one thinking about?

Very wonderful things, no doubt.

Unwritten history 1

Unfathomed mystery! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,

And chuckles and crows, and nods

and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx!

Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by


Our little nephew will lose two years;

And he'll never know Where the summers go;— He need not laugh, for he ll find it so!

Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links

By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown,

Blind, and wailing, and all alone,

Into the light of day ?— Out from the shore of the unknown sea,

Tossing in pitiful agony, — Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,

Specked with the barks of little souls, —

Barks that were launched on the other side,

And slipped from heaven on an ebbmg tide!

What does he think of his mother's eyes?

What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle-roof that flies

Forward and backward through the air?

What does he think of his mother's breast, — Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight, — Cup of his life and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace

Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink

and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds, — Words she has learned to murmur well?

Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow, and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips;
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! Down he goes!
See! He is hushed in sweet re-
. pose!

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