And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: " Despair! Those who walk with feet of air

Leave no long-enduring marks; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant,

These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;
The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,

SEE, the fire is sinking low,
Dusky red the embers glow,

While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June

From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,

In the midnight and the snow,
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,
Like the trumpets of Iskander,

All the noisy chimneys blow!

Every quivering tongue of flame
Seems to murmur some great name,
Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"
But the night-wind answers, "Hollow
Are the visions that you follow,

Into darkness sinks your fire!"

Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,
Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,

Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim :

"These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations,

Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down ;
Sink the rumors of renown;

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn !

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn !

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

KILLED AT THE FORD

HE is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose plea-
sant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap,

We lifted him up to his saddle again,
And through the mire and the mist and
the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp,
And laid him as if asleep on his bed;
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's
lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to
crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

GIOTTO'S TOWER

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint

On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists

paint

Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incom- | plete!

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,

The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,

A vision, a delight, and a desire, —

Thy flame is blown abroad from all the heights,

Through all the nations, and a sound is

heard,

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, In their own language hear thy wondrous word,

And many are amazed and many doubt.

NOËL

ENVOYÉ À M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOËL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS DIVERS

The basket of wine which Mr. Longfellow sent to his friend with these verses was accompanied by the following note: "A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all the house of Agassiz! I send also six good wishes in the shape of bottles. Or is it wine? It is both; good wine and good wishes and kind memories of you on this Christmas Eve."

A translation of the verses was printed by Mr. John E. Norcross of Philadelphia in a brochure, 1867. L'Académie en respect, Nonobstant l'incorrection A la faveur du sujet,

Ture-lure,

N'y fera point de rature;
Noel! ture-lure-lure.

GUI BARÔZAL.

À côté marchait un vieux Hidalgo, mais non mousseux ; Dans le temps de Charlemagne Fut son père Grand d'Espagne ! "Bons amis,

J'ai diné chez Agassiz!"

Derrière eux un Bordelais,
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,
Parfumé de poésie

Riait, chantait, plein de vie,
"Bons amis,

J'ai soupé chez Agassiz!"

Avec ce beau cadet roux, Bras dessus et bras dessous, Mine altière et couleur terne, Vint le Sire de Sauterne ;

"Bons amis, J'ai couché chez Agassiz!"

Mais le dernier de ces preux, Etait un pauvre Chartreux, Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,

"Bénédictions sur le Juste ! Bons amis,

Bénissons Père Agassiz!"

Ils arrivent trois à trois, Montent l'escalier de bois Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme Peut permettre ce vacarme, Bons amis,

A la porte d'Agassiz!

“Ouvrez donc, mon bon Seigneur, Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur ; Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes Gens de bien et gentilshommes, Bons amis

De la famille Agassiz!"

Chut, ganaches ! taisez-vous !
C'en est trop de vos glouglous;
Epargnez aux Philosophes
Vos abominables strophes !
Bons amis,

Respectez mon Agassiz!