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Rising and falling in eternal flow; Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow,

They take them wings and spring

aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then,

dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and

rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as

proudly on they bear.


Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove,

Where the sea-flower spreads its

leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, I brine.

Far down in the green and glassy
The floor is of sand, like the moun-
tain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the

flinty there from coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and

billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there,

And the sands are bright as the stars

that glow In the motionless fields of upper air: There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To blush, like a banner bathed in

slaughter: There with a light and easy motion. The fan-coral sweeps through the

clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of


Are bending like corn on the upland lea:

And life, in rare and beautiful forms. Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,

And is safe when the wrathful spirit

of storms Has made the top of the wave his own;

And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,

When the wind-god frowns in the

murky skies. And demons are waiting the wreck

on shore; Then far below in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and goldfish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly, Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.


Ox thy fair bosom, silver lake! The wild swan spreads his snowy sail.

And round his breast the ripples break,

As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveliss stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore.
As blows the north-wind, heave their

And curl around the dashing oar:
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun. to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,

A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
Oh! I could ever sweep the oar.
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us, toil is o'er.



They sat and combed their beautiful hair,

Their long bright tresses, one by one.

As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, After the revel was done.

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille;

Idly they laughed like other girls, Who over the fire, when all is still, Comb out their braids and curls.

Robes of satin and Brussels lace,

Knots of flowers and ribbons too, scattered about in every place. For the revel is through.

And Maud and Madge in robes of white,

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun,

Stocklngless, slipperless, sit in the night, For the revel is done.

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, Those wonderful waves of brown and gold,

Till the fire is out in the chamber there,

And the little bare feet are cold. Then, out of the gathering winter


All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather,

While the fire is out and the house is still.

Maud and Madge together, —

Maud and Madge in robes of white, The prettiest nightgowns under the sun.

Curtained away from the chilly night,
After the revel is done! —

Float along in a splendid dream,
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune,


While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, In a palace's grand saloon.

Flashing of jewels and flutter of


Tropical odors sweeter than musk; Men and women with beautiful faces And eyes of tropical dusk, —

And one face shining out like a star, One face haunting the dreams of each.

And one voice sweeter than others are,

Breaking into silvery speech, —

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom.

An old. old story over again,
As down the royal bannered room,
To the golden gittern's strain,

Two and two, they dreamily walk, While an unseen spirit walks beside,

And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, He claimed one for a bride.

O Maud and Madge, dream on together,

With never a pang of jealous fear! For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather Shall whiten another year,

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, Braided brown hair and golden tress,

There 'll be only one of you left for the bloom Of the bearded lips to press, —

Only one for the bridal pearls,

The robe of satin and Brussels lace, Only one to blush through her curls At the sight of a lover's face.

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white.

For you the revel has just begun:

But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night The revel of life is done!

But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, Queen of heaven and bride of the sun,

O beautiful Maud, you' ll never miss The kisses another hath won!

In An hour.


"I'll take the orchard path," she said.

Speaking lowly, smiling slowly: The brook was dried within its bed, The hot sun flung a flame of red Low in the west as forth she sped.

Across the dried brook-course she went,

Singing lowly, smiling slowly; She scarcely felt the sun that spent its fiery force in swift descent, She never saw the wheat was bent,

The grasses parched, the blossoms dried;

Singing lowly, smiling slowly, Her eyes amidst the drouth espied A summer plcasance far and wide, With roses and sweet violets pied.



But homeward coming all the way,

Sighing lowly, pacing slowly. She knew the bent wheat withering lay.

She saw the blossoms' dry decay, She missed the little brooklet's play.

A breeze had sprung from out the south,

But, sighing lowly, pacing slowly, She only felt the burning drouth; Her eyes were hot and parched her mouth,

Yet sweet the wind blew from the south.

And when the wind brought welcome rain,

Still sighing lowly, pacing slowly, She never saw the lifting grain, But only — a lone orchard lane, Where she had waited all in vain.


Tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in;
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.

They were strolling together up the hill,

Where the wind comes blowing merry

and chill; And it blew the curls a frolicsome


All over her happy peach-colored face,

Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in,

Under her beautiful dimpled chin.

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom

Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,

All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl

That ever imprisoned a romping curl,
Or, tying her bonnet under her chin,
Tied a young man's heart within.

Steeper and steeper grew the hill;
Madder, merrier, chillier still
The western wind blew down, and

The wildest tricks with the little maid,

As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within.

O western wind, do you think it was fair,

To play such tricks with her floating hair?

To gladly, gleefully do your best To blow her against the young man's breast,

Where he as gladly folded her in. And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin?

Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought, An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What perilous danger you'd be in, As she tied her bonnet under her chin!


Some day; some day of days, threading the street With idle, heedless pace, Unlooking for such grace, I shall behold your face! Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet.

Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May,

Or winter's icy chill Touch whitely vale and hill. What matter? I shall thrill Through every vein with summer on that day.

Once more life's perfect youth will
all come back,
And for a moment there
I shall stand fresh and fair,
And drop the garment care;
Once more my perfect youth will
nothing lack.

I shut my eyes now, thinking how
't will be,—
How face to face each soul
Will slip its long control,
Forget the dismal dole

Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea;

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting, The past with all its fears, Its silences and tears. Its lonely, yearning years, Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting.

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.


"Alt. the rivers run into the sea." Like the pulsing of a river, The motion of a song, Wind the olden words along The tortuous turnings of my thoughts whenever I sit beside the sea.

"All the rivers run into the sea." O you little leaping river Laugh on beneath your breath! With a heart as deep as death, Strong stream, go patient, grave, and hasting never, — I sit beside the sea.

"All the rivers run into the sea." Why the passion of a river? Tbe striving of a soul?

Calm the eternal waters roll Upon the eternal shore. At last, whatever Seeks it — finds the sea.

"All the rivers run into the sea." O thou bounding, burning river, Hurrying heart! I seem To know (soone knows in adream) That in the waiting heart of God forever, Thou too shalt find the sea.


A Lily rooted in a sacred soil, Arrayed with those who neither spin nor toil;

Dinah, the preacher, through the purple air,

Forever, in her gentle evening prayer, Shall plead for her — what ear too

deaf to hear ? — "As if she spoke to some one very


And he of storied Florence, whose

great heart Broke for its human error; wrapped

apart, [flame And scorching in the swift, prophetic Com passion for late holiness and


Than untried glory grander, gladder, higher—

Deathless, for her, he "testifies by fire."

A statue, fair and firm, on marble feet,

Womanhood's woman, Dorothea, sweet

As strength, and strong as tenderness, to make A "struggle with the dark" for

white light's sake, Immortal stands, unanswered speaks.

Shall they, Of her great hand the moulded,

breathing clay, Her fit, select, and proud survivors

be- Possess the life eternal, and not she f


I'd rather see an empty trough, —
A dreary, weary bough that hung
As boughs will hang within whose

No mated birds had ever sung;
Far rather than to see or touch
The sadness of an empty nest
Where joy has been, but is not now;
Where love has been, but is not blest.

There is no sadness in the world,
No other like it here or there, —
The sadness of deserted homes
In nests, or hearts, or anywhere.


Two things love can do,

Only two:
Can distrust, or can believe;
It can die, or it can live,
There is no syncope
Possible to love or me,

Go your ways!

Two things you can do,

Only two:
Be the thing you used to be,
Or be nothing more to me.
I can but joy or grieve,
Can no more than die or live.

Go your ways!

So far I wrote, my darling, drearily, But now my sad pen falls down wearily

From out my trembling hand.

I did not, do not, cannot mean it, dear!

Come life or death, joy, grief, or hope, or fear, I bless you where I stand!

I bless you where I stand, excusing you,

No speech nor language for accusing you

My laggard lips can learn.

To you — be what you are, or can, to me, —

To you or blessedly or fatefully
My heart must turn!

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