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And bids the billows bear it where

they can! Deep calleth unto deep, and, from

the cloud, Launches the bolt, that, bursting

o'er the sea, Rends for a moment the thick pitchy

shroud.

And shows the ship the shore beneath her lee: Start not, dear wife, no dangers here betide,—

And see, the boy still sleeping at your side!

TRIUMPH.

The grave but ends the struggle!
Follows then
The triumph, which, superior to
the doom,

Grows loveliest, and looks best, to
mortal men,
Purple in beauty, towering o'er the
tomb!

Oh! with the stoppage of the impul-
sive tide

That vexed the impatient heart

with needful strife, The soul that is hope's living, leaps to life, And shakes her fragrant plumage far

and wide! Eyes follow then in worship which but late

Frowned in defiance, — and the timorous herd, [word, That sleekly waited for another's Grow bold, at last, to bring,— obeying fate,— The tribute of their praise, but late denied,— Tribute of homage which is sometimes,— hate!

Alexander Smith.

[From Horton.]
BARBARA.

On the Sabbath-day,

Through the church-yard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves 1 held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,

I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere

While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine — Gleamed and vanished in a moment — Oh, that face was surely thine

Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face!

O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist; The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist — A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed,

That wild morning, Barbara!

I searched, in my despair,

Sunny noon and midnight air;
I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.
Oh, many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,
My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone,
Within the dripping church-yard, the rain plashing on your stone,

You were sleeping, Barbara!

'Mong angels, do you think

Of the precious golden link
I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?
Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars,
Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through latticed bars,
The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars,

Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed;

Wild and far my heart hath ranged,
And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;
But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked:
I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact —
Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract —

Still I love you, Barbara!

Yet, love, I am unblest;

With many doubts opprest,
I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.
Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,
The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more
Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore.

You could teach me, Barbara!

In vain, in vain, in vain!

You will never come again!
There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; ,
The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree,
round selfish shores forever means the hurt and wounded sea,
There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee,

Barbara!

GLASGOW.

Srao, poet, 'tis a merry world;
That cottage smoke is rolled and
curled

In sport, that every moss
Is happy, every inch of soil; —
Before me runs a road of toil

With my grave cut across.
Sing, trailing showers and breezy

downs —
I know the tragic hearts of towns.

City! I am true son of thine;
Ne'er dwelt I where great mornings
shine

Around the bleating pens;
Ne'er by the rivulets I strayed,
And ne'er upon my childhood weighed

The silence of the glens.
Instead of shores where ocean
beats

I hear the ebb and flow of streets.

Black Labor draws his weary waves
Into their secret moaning caves;

But. with the morning light,
That sea again will overflow
With a long, weary sound of woe,

Again to faint in night.
Wave am I in that sea of woes,
Which, night and morning, ebbs and
flows.

I dwelt within a gloomy court,
Wherfin did never sunbeam sport;

Yet there my heart was stirred — My very blood did dance and thrill. When on my narrow window-sill

Spring lighted like a bird. Poor flowers! I watched them pine

for weeks, With leaves as pale as human cheeks.

Afar, one summer, I was borne;
Through golden vapors of the morn

I heard the hills of sheep:
I trod with a wild ecstasy
The bright fringe of the living sea:

And on a ruined keep I sat, and watched an endless plain Blacken beneath the gloom of rain.

Oh, fair the lightly-sprinkled waste, O'er which a laughing shower has raced!

Oh, fair the April shoots! Oh, fair the woods on summer days, While a blue hyacinthine haze

Is dreaming round the roots! In thee, O city! I discern Another beauty, sad and stern.

Drawthy fiereestreamsof blindingore, Smite on a thousand anvils, roar

Down to the harbor-bars;
Smoulder in smoky sunsets, flare
On rainy nights; with street and
square

Lie empty to the stars.
From terrace proud to alley base
I know thee as my mother's face.

When sunset bathes thee in his gold.
In wreaths of bronze thy sides are

rolled, Thy smoke is dusky fire; And, from the glory round thee

poured,

A sunbeam like an angel's sword

Shivers upon a spire. Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream!

While the blue night crept up the stream.

The wild train plunges in the hills, He shrieks across the midnight rills;

Streams through the shifting glare, The roar and flap of foundry fires. That shake with light the sleeping shires;

And on the moorlands bare
He sees afar a crown of light
Hang o'er thee in the hollow night.

At midnight, when thy suburbs lie
As silent as a noonday sky

When larks with heat are mute,
I love to linger on thy bridge,
All lonely as a mountain ridge,

Disturbed but by my foot;
While the black lazy stream beneath
Steals from its far-off wilds of heath.

And through thy heart as through a dream,

Flows on that black disdainful
stream;
All scornfully it flows,
Bet ween the huddled gloom of masts,
Silent as pines unvexed by blasts —
'Tween lamps in streaming rows.
O wondrous sight! O stream of
dread!

0 long, dark river of the dead!

Afar, the banner of the year
Unfurls: but dimly prisoned here,

'Tis only when I greet
A dropt rose lying in my way,
A butterfly that flutters gay

Athwart the noisy street.

I know the happy Summer smiles Around thy suburbs, miles on miles.

'Twere neither pa>an now, nor dirge,
The flash and thunder of the surge

On flat sands wide and bare;
No haunting joy or anguish dwells
In the green light of sunny dells,

Or in the starry air.
Alike to me the desert flower.
The rainbow laughingo'er theshower.

While o'erthy walls the darknesssails, I lean against the churchyard rails;

Up in the midnight towers The belfried spire, the street is dead, I hear in silence overhead

The clang of iron hours:
It moves me not — I know her tomb
Is yonder in the shapeless gloom.

All raptures of this mortal breath,
Solemnities of life and death,

Dwell in thy noise alone:
Of me thou hast become a part —
Some kindred with my human heart

Lives in thy streets of stone; For we have been familiar more Than galley-slave and weary oar.

The beech is dipped in wine; the shower

Is burnished; on the swinging flower

The latest bee doth sit The low sun stares through dust of gold.

And o'er the darkening heath and wold

The large ghost-moth doth flit. In every Orchard Autumn stands, With apples in his golden hands.

But all these sights and sounds are strange;

Then wherefore from thee should I range?

Thou hast my kith and kin; My childhood, youth, and manhood brave;

Thou hast that unforgotten grave

Within thy central din. A sacredness of love and death Dwells in thy noise and smoky breath.

Charlotte Smith.

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth.
Chirping on my humble hearth;
Wheresoe"er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song most soft and sweet;
In return thou shall receive
such a song as I can give.

Though in voice and shape they be
Formed as if akin to thee,
Thou s.irpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer-song,
Thine endures the winter long.
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy lay:
Then, insect! let thy simple song
Cheer the winter evening long;
While, secure from every storm,
In my cottage stout and warm,
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be,
And I'll delight to shelter thee.

THE CLOSE OF SPRING.

The garlands fade that spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she had nursed in dew. Anemones that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell.

Or purple orchis variegate the plain,

Till Spring again shall call forth every bell

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair,

Are the fond visions of thy early day,

Till tyrant passion and corrosive care

Bid all thy fairy colors fade away! Another May new buds and flowers

shall bring; Ah! why has Happiness no second

Spring?

Florence Smith.

[From Rainbow-Songs.]
THE PURPLE OF THE POET.

Purple, the passionate color!

Purple, the color of pain!
I clothe myself in the rapture—

I count the suffering gain!

The sea lies gleaming before me,
Pale in the smile of the sun—

No shadow — all golden and azure —
The joy of the day has begun!

Throbbing and yearning forever, With longing unsatisfied, sweet —

Flushed with the pain and the rapture, Warm at the sun-god's feet —

In the glow and gloom of the evening The glory is reached — and o'erpast;

Joy's rose-bloom has ripened to purple—

'Twill fade, but the stars shine at last!

Purple, the passionate color!

Robing the martyr, the king — Regal in joy and in anguish,

Life's blossom; with, ah! its sting —

Give me the sovereign color—
I'll suffer that I may reign!

The poet's moment of rapture
Is worth the poet's pain!

[From Rainbow-Songs.] THE YELLOW OF THE MISER.

The beautiful color—the color of gold!

How it sparkles and burns in the

piled-up dust! The poets! they know not, they never

have told Of the fadeless color, the color of

gold —

Of my god in whom I trust! Deep down in the earth it winds and it creeps —

In her sluggish old veins 'tis the warm rich blood —

The old mother-monster! how soundly she sleeps!

Come! nearest her heart, where the strong life leaps — We drink, we bathe in the flood!

Ah, the far-off days! was I ever a child?

—My brain is so dark, and my heart

has grown cold. Those fields where the golden-eyed

buttercups smiled Long ago—did I love them with

heart undefiled? Did I seek the flowers for the

gold?

Be still! O thou traitor Remorse, at my heart, Whining without in the dark at the door—

I know thee, the beggar and thief

that thou art, Lying low at my threshold—I bid

thee depart! Thou shalt dog my footsteps no

more.

Wilt thou bring me the faded flowers of my youth —

With hands full of dead leaves, and lips full of lies —

For these shall I yield thee my treasure, in sooth?

Are the buttercup's petals pure gold, say truth! Wilt thou coin me the daisy's eyes?

I hate them! the smiling flowers in the sun,

And the yellow, smooth rays that they feed on at noon —

Tis the hard cold gold I will have or none!

Come, pluck me the stars down, one by one,

Plant me the pale rich moon!

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