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When the stern genius, to whose hollow tramp Echo the startled chambers of the soul,

Waves his inverted torch o'er that pale camp Where the archangel final trumpets roll,

I would not meet him in the chamber dim,

Hushed, and pervaded with a nameless fear,

When the breath flutters and the senses swim, And the dread hour is near.

Though love's dear arms might clasp

me fondly then As if to keep the Summoner at bay, And woman's woe and the calm grief

of men

Hallow at last the chill, unbreathing clay,— These are earth's fetters, and the soul would shrink, thus bound, from darkness and the dread unknown, stretching its arms from death's eternal brink. Which it must dare alone.

But in the awful silence of the sky, Upon some mountain summit, yet untrod,

Through the blue ether would I
climb, to die
Afar from mortals and alone with

To the pure keepingof the stainless air Would I resign my faint and fluttering breath.

And with the rapture of an answered prayer

Receive the kiss of Death.

Then to the elements my frame would turn;

No worms should riot on my coffined clay. But the cold limbs, from that sepulchral urn,

In the slow storms of ages waste away.

Loud winds and thunder's diapason high

Should be my requiem through the coming time, [sky, And the white summit, fading in the My monument sublime.


The violet loves a sunny bank,

The cowslip loves the lea;
The scarlet creeper loves the elm,
But I love — thee.

The sunshine kisses mount and vale,

The stars, they kiss the sea; The west winds kiss the clover-bloom, But I kiss — thee!

The oriole weds his mottled mate:

The lily's bride of the bee; Heaven's marriage-ring is round the earth,— Shall I wed thee?


The sea is a jovial comrade.

He laughs wherever he goes; His merriment shines in the dimpling lines That wrinkle his hale repose; He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun, And shakes all over with glee, And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore, In the mirth of the mighty sea!

But the Wind is sad and restless,

And cursed with an inward pain! You may hark as you will, by valley or hill.

But you hear him still complain, He wails on the barren mountains,

And shrieks on the wintry sea; He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the pine, And shudders all over the aspen tree.

Welcome are both their voices,
And I know not which is best, —
The laughter that slips from the
Ocean's lips,
Or the cross winds unrest.
There's a pang in all rejoicing,

A joy in the heart of pain,
And the Wind that saddens, the Sea
that gladdens,
Are singing the self-same strain!


I Lie in the summer meadows,

In the meadows all alone. With the infinite sky above me,

And the sun on his midday throne.

The smell of the flowering grasses

Is sweeter than any rose, And a million happy insects

Sing in the warm repose.

The mother lark that is brooding
Feels the sun on her wings,

And the deeps of the noonday glitter
With swarms of fairy things.

From the billowy green beneath me To the fathomless blue above,

The creatures of God are happy In the warmth of their summer love.

The infinite bliss of Nature

I feel in every vein;
The light and the life of summer

Blossom in heart and brain.

But darker than any shadow
By thunder-clouds unfurled,

The awful truth arises.
That Death is in the world.

And the sky may beam as ever,
And never a cloud be curled;

And the airs he living odors,
But Death is in the world!

Out of the deeps of sunshine
The invisible bolt is hurled:

There's life in the summer meadows,
But Death is in the world.


Now the night is overpast.
And the mist is cleared away:

On my barren life at last
Breaks the bright, reluctant day.

Day of payment for the wrong
I was doomed so long to bear;

Day of promise, day of song,
Day that makes the future fair!

Let me wake to bliss alone;

Let me bury every fear: What I prayed for is my own;

What was distant, now is near.

For the happy hour that waits
No reproachful shade shall bring.

And I hear forgiving Fates
In the happy bells that ring.

Leave the song that now is mute,
For the sweeter song begun:

Leave the blossom for the fruit,
And the rainbow for the sun!


The fisherman wades in the surges;

The sailor sails over the sea; The soldier steps bravely to battle;

The woodman lays axe to the tree.

They are each of the breed of the heroes,

The manhood attempered in strife; Strong hands that go lightly to labor, True hearts that take comfort in life.

In each is the seed to replenish
The world with the vigor it needs,—

The centre of honest affections,
The impulse to generous deeds.

But the shark drinks the blood of the fisher;

The sailor is dropped in the sea; The soldier lies cold by his cannon; The woodman is crushed by his tree.

Each prodigal life that is wasted
In manly achievement unseen,

But lengthens the days of the coward, And strengthens the crafty and mean.

The blood of the noblest is lavished That the selfish a profit may find; But God sees the lives that are squaredered,

And we to Kis wisdom are blind.


When May, with cowslip-braided locks,

Walks through the land in green attire,

and burns in meadow-grass the phlox His torch of purple fire:

When buds have burst the silver sheath,

And shifting pink, and gray, and gold

Steal o'er the woods, while fair beneath

The bloomy vales unfold:

When, emerald-bright, the hemlock stands

New-feathered, needled new, the

And, exiles from the orient lands,
The turbaned tulips shine:

When wild azaleas deck the knoll, And cin(|ue-foil stars the fields of home,

And winds, that take the white-weed, roll

The meadows into foam:

Then from the jubilee I turn

To other Mays that I have seen. Where more resplendent blossoms burn.

And statelier woods arc green;—

Mays when my heart expanded first, A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;

And one sweet wind of heaven dispersed The only clouds I knew.

For she, whose softly murmured name

The music of the month expressed, Walked by my side, in holy shame Of girlish love confessed,

The budding chestnuts overhead, Their sprinkled shadows in the lane, —

Blue flowers along the brooklet's bed, — I see them all again!

The old, old tale of girl and boy,

Repeated ever, never old:
To each in turn the gates of joy,
The gates of heaven unfold.

And when the punctual May arrives,
With cowslip-garland on her brow,
We know what once she gave our

And cannot give us now!


Thou art not dead; thou art not gone to dust;

No line of all thy loveliness shall fall

To formless ruin, smote by Time, and thrust Into the solemn gulf that covers all.

Thou canst not wholly perish, though the sod

Sink with its violets closer to thy breast;

Though by the feet of generations trod,

The headstone crumble from thy
place of rest.

The marvel of thy beauty cannot die;
The sw eetness of thy presence shall
not fade;
Earth gave not all the glory of thine

eye, —

Death may not keep what Death has never made.

It was not thine, that forehead strange and cold, Nor those dumb lips, they hid beneath the snow; Thy heart would throb beneath that passive fold. Thy hands for me that stony clasp forego.

But thou hadst gone, — gone from

the dreary land, Gone from the storms let loose on

every hill, Lured by the sweet persuasion of a


Which leads thee somewhere in the distance still.

Where'er thou art, I know thou

wearest yet The same bewildering beauty, sanctified

By calmer joy, and touched with soft regret

For him who seeks, but cannot reach thy side.

I keep for thee the living love of old.

And seek thy place in Nature, as a child

Whose hand is parted from his playmate's hold, Wanders and cries along a lonesome wild.

When, in the watches of my heart, I hear

The messages of purer life, and know

The footsteps of thy spirit lingering near,

The darkness hides the way that I should go.

Canst thou not bid the empty realms


That form, the symbol of thy heavenly part? Or on the fields of barren silence pour

That voice, the perfect music of thy heart?

Oh, once, once bending to these widowed lips, Take back the tender warmth of life from me,

Or let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse

The light of mine, and give me death with thee?


'"give Us a song!'' the soldiers


The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff

No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,

"We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may. another day Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,

Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;

T was Britain's glory: Each heart recalled a different name.

But all sang " Annie Lawrie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, —

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,

But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,

While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell,

And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;

And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Lawrie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing:

The bravest are the tenderest, —
The loving are the daring.


Thou, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter.

Art a shape of joy,
Standing by the Isar's water

With thy brother-boy;
In thy dream, with idle fingers

Threading through his curls, On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers,

Rosiest of girls!

Woods of glossy oak are ringing

With the echoes bland, While thy generous voice is singing

Songs of Fatherland, — Songs, that by the Danube's river

Sound on hills of vine, And where waves in green light quiver,

Down the rushing Rhine.

Life, with all its hues and changes,

To thy heart doth lie
Like those dreamy Alpine ranges

In the southern sky;
Where in haze the clefts are hidden,

Which the foot should fear, And the crags that fall unbidden

Startle not the ear.

Where the village maidens gather

At the fountain's brim, Or in sunny harvest weather,

With the reapers trim; Where the autumn fires are burning

On the vintage-hills; Where the mossy wheels are turning

In the ancient mills;

Where from ruined robber towers

Hangs the ivy's hair,
And the crimson foxbell flowers

On the crumbling stair: —
Everywhere, without thy presence,

Would the sunshine fail, Fairest of the maiden peasants!

Flower of Isar's vale.

Sir Henry Taylor.

[From Philip Van Artevelde.]


HE was a man of that unsleeping spirit,

He seemed to live by miracle: his food

Was glory, which was poison to his mind

And peril to his body. He was one Of many thousand such that die betimes,

Whose story is a fragment, known to few.

Then comes the man who has the

luck to live. And he's a prodigy. Compute the


And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times

Who wins the race of glory, but than him

A thousand men more gloriously endowed

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