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The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make
The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
I wonder if she thinks of them,
If ever the pines of Kamolh wood,
I see her face, I hear her voice:
And what to her is now the boy
The silver trumpets rang across the dome:
The people knelt upon the ground
with awe: And borne upon the necks of men
Like some great god, the Holy Lord
of Rome. Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself
in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendor and in light the Pope
passed home. My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a
lonely sea. And sought in vain for any place of rest:
"Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears."
What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, —
That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the vecries sing The songs of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood
The moaning of the sea of change
A Lily-girl, not made for this world's pain, With brown, soft hair close braided
by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, Through whose wan marble creeps
one purple vein. Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, [of awe.
Being o'ershadowed by the wings Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.
ON HEARING THE DIES IRM SUNG IN THE MM l.M. CHAPEL.
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red name and thundering.
The empurpled vines dear memories
of Thee bring: A bird at evening flying to its nest, Tells me of One who had no place
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
When red and brown are burnished
on the leaves, And the fields echo to the gleaner's
Come when the splendid fulness of
the moon Looks down upon the rows of
golden sheaves, And reap Thy harvest: we have
IMPRESSION DU MATIN.
The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to B harmony in Gray: A barge with ochre-colored hay Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses' walls Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul's
Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country wagons: and a bird Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.
The sky is laced with fitful red, The circling mists and shadows flee,
The dawn is rising from the sea, Like a white lady from her bed.
And jagged brazen arrows fall Athwart the feathers of the night, And a long wave of yellow light Breaks silently on tower and hall,
And spreading wide across the wold
Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,
And all the chestnut tops are stirred
And all the branches streaked with gold.
The sea is flecked with bars of gray The dull dead wind is out of tune, And like a withered leaf the moon
Is blown across the stormy bay.
Etched clear upon the pallid sand
With laughing face and gleaming hand.
And overhead the curlews cry, Where through the dusky upland grass
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
She that was young and fair
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
She is at rest.
Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
Heap earth upon it.
Richard Henry Wilde.
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SVUilBR ROSE.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground — to die. Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see, — But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf. That trembles in the moon's pale ray!
Its hold is frail, its date is brief;
Restless, and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree,— But none shall breathe a sigh forme!
My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, —
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
TO THE MOCKING BIRD.
Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe:
Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;
To thee, the palm of scoffing, we ascribe,
Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule!
For such thou art by day — but all night long
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn, strain,
As if thou didst, in this thy moonlight song,
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, —
Musing on falsehood, folly, sin, and wrong,
And sighing for thy motley coat again.
Helen Maria Williams.
WHILST THEE I SEEK.
Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power!
Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled.
Thy love the power of thought bestowed, —
To Thee my thoughts would soar: Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed;
That mercy I adore.
In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see! Each blessing to my soul most dear,
Because conferred by Thee.
In every joy that crowns my days,
In every pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise,
Or seek relief in prayer.
When gladness wings my favored hour,
Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower,
My soul shall meet Thy will.
My lifted eye, without a tear,
My steadfast heart shall know no fear;
That heart will rest on Thee.
SONNET TO HOPE.
Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love,
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,—
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay
smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching
Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften or shall chase misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray
Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye;
Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die.
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast.
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest.
Nathaniel Parker Willis.
TO A CITY PIGEON.
Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touched my love.
Why dost thou sit on the heated leaves.
And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?
Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool
Thou alone of the feathered race Dost look un*eared on the human face;
Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
to be; And the " gentle dove" has become a name for trust and
A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!
Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild
In the prisoned thoughts of the city
child; And thy glossy wings Are its brightest image of moving
It is no light chance. Thou art set apart,
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair
That else were sealed in this crowded air;
I sometimes dream Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.
Come, then, ever, when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,
And murmur thy low sweet music
out! I hear and see Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in
I Love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play. And persuade myself that I am not old.
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the world for fourscore ks years;
And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true; it is very true;
I'm old, and " I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.
Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring: I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
I am willing to die when my time
And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.
O.V THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLA Y."
Tired of play! tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee; The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;