SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS.

A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime

Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,

The minister of Thought. How many weary centuries has it been About these deserts blown! How many strange vicissitudes has seen How many histories known! Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite Trampled and passed it o'er, When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight

His favourite son they bore. Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,

Crushed it beneath their tread; Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air

Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
Held close in her caress,
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and
faith

Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms
Pacing the Dead Sea beach,
And singing slow their old Armenian
psalms

In half-articulate speech;
Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate
With westward steps depart;
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,
And resolute in heart;

These have passed over it, or may have passed!

Now in this crystal tower Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,

It counts the passing hour.

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;--

Before my dreamy eye Stretches the desert with its shifting sand,

Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,
This little golden thread
Dilates into a column high and vast,

A form of fear and dread.
And onward, and across the setting sun,
Across the boundless plain,

The column and its broader shadow run,
Till thought pursues in vain.
The vision vanishes! These walls again
Shut out the lurid sun,

Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;
The half-hour's sand is run!

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

BLACK shadows fall

From the lindens tall,

That lift aloft their massive wall
'Against the southern sky;
And from the realms
Of the shadowy elms

A tide-like darkness overwhelms
The fields that round us lie.
But the night is fair,
And everywhere

A warm, soft vapour fills the air,
And distant sounds seem near;
And above, in the light

Of the star-lit night,

Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere.

THE OPEN WINDOW.
THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland housedog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;

But shadow, and silence, and sadness,
Were hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches,

With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,

I pressed his warm, soft hand!

PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's wingèd steed. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves;

And, like living coals, the apples

Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim; 'Twas the daily call to labour,

Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapour veiled; Not the less he breathed the odours That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common,

By the school-boys he was found, And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. Then the sombre village crier,

Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell. And the curious country people,

Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous

Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapours cold and dim; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant,

Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars;

Till at length the bell at midnight
Sounded from its dark abode,
And, from out a neighbouring farmyard,
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.
Then, with nostrils wide distended,
Breaking from his iron chain,
And unfolding far his pinions,
To those stars he soared again.
On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
Lo! the strange steed had departed,
And they knew not when nor where.

But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound.

GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist

Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 'Twas an image of the Virgin

That had tasked his utmost skill; But, alas! his fair ideal

Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island

Had the precious wood been brought; Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought; Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, And the day's humiliation

Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak Shape the thought that stirs within thee!"

And the startled artist woke,-
Woke, and from the smoking embers
Seized and quenched the glowing
wood;

And therefrom he carved an image,
And he saw that it was good.
O thou sculptor, painter, poet!
Take this lesson to thy heart:
That is best which lieth nearest ;
Shape from that thy work of art.

KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-
HORN.

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,—
That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty

They remembered one Saint more."
And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,

And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!"

And died away
Through the dreary night,
In accents of despair.
Balder the Beautiful
God of the summer sun,
Fairest of all the Gods!
Light from his forehead beamed,
Runes were upon his tongue,
As on the warrior's sword.
All things in earth and air
Bound were by magic spell
Never to do him harm;
Even the plants and stones;
All save the mistletoe,
The sacred mistletoe!
Hoeder, the blind old God,
Whose feet are shod with silence,
Pierced through that gentle breast
With his sharp spear, by fraud
Made of the mistletoe,
The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship,
With horse and harness,
As on a funeral
pyre.

Odin placed

A ring upon his finger,

And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship'
It floated far away
Over the misty sea,

Till like the sun it seemed,
Sinking beneath the waves.
Balder returned no more!

So perish the old Gods!
But out of the sea of Time
Rises a new land of song,
Fairer than the old.
Over its meadows green

Walk the young bards and sing.

Sing no more,

O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood!

THE SINGERS.

GOD sent his singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.
The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by

streams,

Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray, old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.
But the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, but in degree;
I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. "These are the three great chords of might,

And he whose ear is tuned aright
Will hear no discord in the three
But the most perfect harmony."

SUSPIRIA.

TAKE them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone!
Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves
As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!