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Pleased with the thought, I nurse it for a while, And then dismiss it with a faint halfsmile.

And next I fancy thee R multitude, Moved by one breath, obedient to the mood

Of one strong thinker — the resistless wind,

That, passing o'er thee, bends thee to its mind.

See how thy blades, in myriads as

they grow, Turn ever eastward as the west winds

blow —

Just as the human crowd is swayed and bent,

By some great preacher, madly eloquent,

Who moves them at his will, and with a breath

Gives them their bias both in life and death.

Or by some wondrous actor, when he draws

All eyes and hearts, amid a hushed applause,

Not to be uttered, lest delight be marred;

Or, greater still, by hymn of prophetbards.

Who moulds the lazy present by his rhyme,

And sings the glories of a future time.

And ye are happy, green leaves,

every one, Spread in your countless thousands

to the sun! Unlike mankind, no solitary blade Of all your verdure ever disobeyed The law of nature: every stalk that


Its head above the mould, enjoys the gifts

Of liberal heaven — the rain, the dew,

the light; And points, though humbly, to the

In finite;

And every leaf, a populous world,

maintains Invisible nations on its wide-stretched


So great is littleness! the mind at fault

Betwixt the peopled leaf and starry vault,

Doubts which is grandest, and, with

holy awe, Adores the God who made them, and

whose law Upholds them in Eternity or Time. Greatest and least, ineffably sublime.


Tell me, ye winged winds.

That round my pathway roar, Do ye not know some spot

Where mortals weep no more? Some lone and pleasant dell,

Some valley in the west, Where, free from toil and pain,

The weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low.

And sighed for pity as it answered, "No."

Tell me, thou mighty deep.

Whose billows round me play, Know'st thou some favored spot,

Some island far away, Where weary man may find

The bliss for which he sighs, — Where sorrow never lives.

And friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow.

Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer, — " No."

And thou, serenest moon.

That, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth.

Asleep in night's embrace; Tell me, in all thy round

Hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man

May find a happier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe.

And a voice, sweet but sad, responded,—"No."

Tell me, my secret soul,
Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,

Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?

Is there no happy spot
Where mortals may be blest,

Where grief may find a balm,
And weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given,

Waved their bright wings, and whispered, — " Yes, iii heaven."



See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born) Round in itself incloses, And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flowerdoes slight,

scarce touching where it lies; But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere.

Restless it rolls, and unsecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray. Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Conld it within the human flower be seen,


Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green, And, recollecting its own light. Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express

The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend!
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upward bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew dis-

White and entire, although congealed and chill —

Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run

Into the glories of th' almighty sun.

Gerald Massey.


Jerusalem the Golden!

I weary for one gleam Of all thy glory folden

In distance and in dream! My thoughts, like palms in exile,

Climb up to look and pray For a glimpse of thy dear country

That lies so far away.

Jerusalem the Golden!

Methinks each flower that blows, And every bird a-singing

Of thee, some secret knows;
I know not what the flowers

Can feel, or singers see;
But all these summer raptures

Seem prophecies of thee.

Jerusalem the Golden!

When sunset's in the west,
It seems the gate of glory,

Thou city of the blest!
And midnight's starry torches

Through intermediate gloom
Are waving with our welcome

To thy eternal home!

Jerusalem the Golden!

When loftily they sing, O'er pain and sorrow olden

Forever triumphing; Lowly may be the portal,

And dark may be the door, The mansion is immortal —

God's palace for his poor!

Jerusalem the Golden!

There all our birds that flew — Our flowers but half unfolden,

Our pearls that turned to dew, And all the glad life-music

Now heard no longer here, Shall come again to greet us

As we are drawing near.

Jerusalem the Golden!

I toil on day by day; Heart-sore each night with longing,

I stretch my hands and pray, That mid thy leaves of healing

My soul may find her nest; Where the wicked cease from troubling,

The weary are at rest!


Ho! ye who in the noble work
Win scorn, as flames draw air,

And in the way where lions lurk
God's image bravely bear;

Ho! trouble-tried and torture torn.

The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.

Life's glory, like the bow in heaven,

Still springeth from the cloud; And soul ne'er soared the starry seven,

But pain's fire-chariot rode.

They've battled best who've boldest borne;

The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.

The martyr's fire-crown on the brow

Doth into glory burn; And tears that from Love's torn heart flow, To pearls of spirit turn. Our dearest hopes in pangs are born; The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.

As beauty in death's cerement shrouds. And stars bejewel night,

God's splendors live in dim heartclouds,

And suffering worketh might. The mirkest hour is mother o' morn; The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.


And thou hast stolen a jewel. Death,
Shall light thy dark up like a star.
A beacon kindling from afar

Our light of love, and fainting faith.

Through tears it gleams perpetually. And glitters through the thickest glooms.

Till the eternal morning comes To light us o'er the jasper sea.

With our best branch in tenderest leaf. We've strewn the way our Lord

doth come; And. ready for the harvest home,

His reapers bind our ripest sheaf.

Our beautiful bird of light hath fled: Awhile she sat with folded wings — Sang round us a few hoverings —

Then straightway into glory sped.

And white-winged angels nurture her: With heaven s white radiance robed

and crowned, And all Love's purple glory round,

She summers on the hills of myrrh.

Through childhood's morning-land, serene

She walked betwixt us twain, like love;

While, in a robe of light above, Her better angel walked unseen, —

Till life's highway broke bleak and wild;

Then, lest her starry garments trail In mire, heart bleed, and courage fall.

The angel's arms caught up the child.

Her wave of life hath backward rolled

To the great ocean; on whose shore

We wander up and down, to store Some treasures of the times of old: —

And aye we seek and hunger on
For precious pearls and relics, rare,
Strewn on the sands for us to wear

At heart for love of her that's gone.

O weep no more! there yet is balm In Gilead! Love doth ever shed Rich healing where it nestles — spread

O'er desert pillows some green palm!

Strange glory streams through life's wild rents; [death And through the open door of We see the heaven that beckoneth

To the beloved going hence.

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed;

The best fruit loads the broken bough; plough,

And in the wounds our sufferings Immortal love sows sovereign seed.

Denis Florence Mccarthy.


Ah! my heart is weary waiting; Waiting for the May.— Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,

With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way. Ah! my heart is weary waiting,—

Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May,— Longing to escape from study. To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging

To the summer's day. Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May,— Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burning,

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

All the winter lay. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing.

Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,

Throbbing for the May,— Throbbing for the seaside billows, Or the water-wooing willows; Where, in laughing and in sobbing,

Glide the streams away. Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,

Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May: Spring goes by with wasted warnings; Moonlit evenings, sunbright morningsSummer comes, yet dark and dreary

Life still ebbs away; Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May!



Persia! time-honored land! who

looks on thee A desert, yet a Paradise, will see, Vast chains of hills where not a

shrub appears, Wastes where the dews distil their

diamond tears; The only living things foul birds of


That whet their beaks, or court the solar ray,

And wolves that fill with bowlings

midnight's vale, Turning the cheek of far-off traveller

pale; —

Anon, the ravished eye delighted dwells

On chinar-groves and brightlywatered dells.

Blooming where man and art have nothing done.

Pomegranates hang their rich fruit in the sun;

Grapes turn to purple many a rock's tall brow,

And globes of gold adorn the citron's bough;

Mid rose-trees hid, or perched on some high palm.

The bulbul sings through eve's delicious calm;

While girt by planes, or washed by cooling streams,

On some green flat the stately city gleams, —

'Tis as a demon there had cast his frown,

And here an angel breathed a blessing down;

As if in nature as the human soul,

The god of darkness spurned heaven's bright control,

Good struggling hard with Evil's withering spell,

A smiling Eden on the marge of hell. Immortal clime! where Zoroaster sprung.

And light on Persia's earlier history flung;


Let charity condemn not Iran's sage, Who taught, reformed, and humanized his age. In him one great as Mecca's prophet, see,

But oh, more gentle, wise, and pure than he.


Here, too, came one who bartered

all for power. The dread Napoleon of earth's

younger hour: Ay, the same spot we calmly muse

on now

Saw chiefs and kings to Alexander bow;

A conqueror, —yes, men praise and

bend the knee; Who spreads most woe, the greatest

hero he.

But lo! that night on fancy casts its gloom, [doom,

That fearful night of revelry and

When perished all things costly, bright, and fair.

And left, as now, these pillars stern and bare.

The feast is spread; around the monarch shine

Those earth-born pomps weak mortals deem divine;

High sits he on his throne of gems and gold,

Bright-starred and purple robes his limbs enfold;

No crown adorns his brow, for festive hours

Have wreathed his head with Bacchus' bloomy flowers;

Lamps, hung in silver chains, a softened glow

Shed on the warrior chiefs that group below.

There prince and noble round the

board are met. Who fought those fights embalmed

in history yet;

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