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And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;

And one eye's black intelligence,— ever that glance

O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;

And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon

His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;

We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheeze

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;

Till over by Delhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!" —and all in a moment his roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight

Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,

And with circles of red for his eyesockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each

holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go

belt and all.

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer —

Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix, Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round,

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

[From The Ring and The Book.]
DREAMS.

It is the good of dreams — so soon they go!

Wake in a horror of heart-beats you may —

Cry, "The dead thing will never

from my thoughts!" Still, a few daylight doses of plain

life,

Cock-crow and sparrow-chirp, or

bleat and bell Of goats that trot by, tinkling to be

milked;

And when you rub your eyes awake

and wide, Where is the harm o' the horror?

Gone!

[From The Ring and The Book.]
THE LACK OF CHILDREN.

What could they be but happy? —

balanced so, Nor low i' the social scale nor yet too

high,

Nor poor nor richer than comports with ease.

Nor bright and envied, nor obscure

and scorned, Nor so young that their pleasures fell

too thick, Nor old past catching pleasure when

it fell,

Nothing above, below the just degree,
All at the mean where joy's compo-
nents mix.
So again, in the couple's very souls
You saw the adequate half with half

to match, Each having and each lacking somewhat, both Making a whole that had all and

lacked naught; The round and sound, in whose composure just The acquiescent and recipient side was Pietro's, and the stirring striving one

Violante s: both in union gave the due

Quietude, enterprise, craving and content,

Which go to bodily health and peace of mind.

But, as 'tis said a body, rightly mixed,

Each element in equipoise, would last

Too long and live forever, — accordingly

Holds a germ — sand-grain weight too

much i' the scale — Ordained to get predominance one

day

And so bring all to ruin and release,— Not otherwise a fatal germ lurked here:

"With mortals much must go, but

something stays; Nothing will stay of our so happy

selves."

Out of the very ripeness of life's core

A worm was bred — "Our life shall

leave no fruit." Enough of bliss, they thought, could

bliss bear seed, Yield its like, propagate a bliss in

turn

And keep the kind up; not supplant

themselves But put in evidence, record they

were,

Show them, when done with, i' the

shape of a child. "'Tis in a child, man and wife grow

complete, One flesh: God says so: let him do

his work!"

William Cullen Bryant.

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT
MOURN."

Oh, deem not they are blest alone

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man has shown

A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears;

And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night;

And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,

Sheddest the bitter drops of rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy anus again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,

And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day

And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay

For all his children suffer here.

JUNE.

I OAZF.n upon the glorious sky

And the green mountains round; And thought that when I came to lie

At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,

When brooks send up a cheerful tune,

And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make,

The rich, green mountain turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould,
A coffin borne through sleet,

And icy clods above it rolled,

While fierce the tempests beat —

Away!—I will not think of these —

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet,

And be the damp mould gently pressed

Into my narrow place of rest.

There through the long, long sum-
mer hours
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of
flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard

The housewife bee and hummingbird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon

Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon

With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight or sound.

I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,

Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep,

They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear

The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills.

Is — that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.

THE PAST.

Thou unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast. Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground. And last, Man's Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — the kind, Yielded to thee with tears — The venerable form — the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain — thy gates deny All Passage save to those who hence depart; Nor to the streaming eye Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee

Earth's wonder and her pride Are gathered, as the waters to the

sea;

Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,-- Love that midst grief began, And grew with years, and faltered not in death.

Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered: With thee are silent fame. Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.

Thine for a space are they — Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;

Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair has gone into thy womb from earliest time.

Shall then come forth to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perished — no! Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago. And features, the great soul's apparent seat.

All shall come back, each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again;

Alone shall evil die, And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, And her, who, still and cold. Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young.

THAN A TOPS IS.

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms,

she speaks A various language; for his gayer

hours

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness ere he is aware.

When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a

blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the

narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick

at heart; — Go forth, under the open sky, and

list

To Nature's teachings, while from

all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths

of air —

Comes a still voice: Yet a few days and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished

thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth

again.

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal restingplace

Shalt thou retire alone,— nor couldst

thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou

shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world

— with kings, The powerful of the earth — the

wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages

past,

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods; rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and,

poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy

waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The

golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of

heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom. — Take

the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert

sands.

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears

no sound, Save his own flashings—yet the

dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since

first

The flight of years began, have laid

them down In their last sleep; the dead reign

there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou

withdraw In silence from the living, and no

friend

Take note of thy departure? All

that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay

will laugh When thou art gone; the solemn

brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will

chase

His favorite phantom; yet all these

shall leave Their mirth and their employments,

and shall come, And make their bed with thee. As

the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and

he who goes In the full strength of years, matron,

and maid, And the sweet babe, and the grayheaded man, — Shall one by one be gathered to thy

side,

By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

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