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THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. And leave it still unsaid in part,
Or say it in too great excess. DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.
The very tones in which we spake Ve sat within the farm-house old, Had something strange, I could but Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
mark; fave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, The leaves of memory seemed to make An easy entrance, night and day. A mournful rustling in the dark. ot far away we saw the port,
Oft died the words upon our lips, The strange, old-fashioned, silent As suddenly, from out the tire town,
Built o. the wreck of stranded ships, he lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The flames would leap and then expire. The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
And, as their splendor flashed and
failed, 'e sat and talked until the night,
We thought of wrecks upon the main, Descending, filled the little room ;
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed ur faces faded from the sight,
And sent no answer back again. Our voices only broke the gloom.
The windows, rattling in their frames, le spake of many a vanished scene, The ocean, roaring up the beach, Of what we once had thought and The gusty blast, the bickering flames, said,
All mingled vaguely in our speech; f what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was Until they made themselves a part
Of fancies floating through the brain,
The long-lost ventures of the heart, nd all that fills the hearts of friends, That send no answers back again.
When first they feel, with secret pain, 'heir lives thenceforth have separate O flames that glowed ! O hearts that ends,
yearned ! And never can be one again ;
They were indeed too much akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned, he first slight swerving of the heart, The thoughts that burned and glowed. That words are powerless to express,
BY THE FIRESIDE.
Let us be patient! These severe afflic
tions 'IIERE is no flock, however watched and Not from the ground arise, tended,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions But one dead lamb is there!
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and
Amid these earthly damps 'he air is full of farewells to the dy- What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers ing,
May be heaven's distant lamps. And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children There is no Death! What seems so is crying,
transition ; Will not be comforted !
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
THE BUILDERS. Whose portal we call Death.
ALL are architects of Fate, She is not dead, the child of our affec
Working in these walls of Time; tion,
Some with massive deeds and great, But gone unto that school
Some with ornaments of rhyme. Where she no longer needs our poor pro- Nothing useless is, or low;
tection, And Christ himself doth rule.
Each thing in its place is best ;
And what seems but idle show In that great cloister's stillness and se
Strengthens and supports the rest. clusion,
For the structure that we raise, By guardian angels led,
Time is with materials filled ; Safe from temptation, safe from sin's Our to-days and yesterdays pollution,
Are the blocks with which we build She lives, whom we call dead.
Truly shape and fashion these ; Day after day we think what she is doing Leave no yawning gaps between ;
In those bright realms of air ; Think not, because no man sees, Year after year, her tender steps pursu- Such things will remain unseen.
ing, Behold her grown more fair.
In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care Thus do we walk with her, and keep un- Each minute and unseen part; broken
For the Gods see everywhere.
Both the unseen and the seen ;
Beautiful, entire, and clean. Not as a child shall we again behold
Else our lives are incomplete, her ; For when with raptures wild
Standing in these walls of Time, In our embraces we again enfold her,
Broken stairways, where the feet She will not be a child ;
Stumble as they seek to climb. But a fair maiden, in her Father's man
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base ; sion, Clothed with celestial grace ;
And ascending and secure And beautiful with all the soul's expan
Shall to-morrow find its place. sion
Thus alone can we attain Shall we behold her face.
To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain, And though at times impetuous with
And one boundless reach of sky. emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN the ocean,
HOUR-GLASS. That cannot be at rest,
A HANDFUL of red sand, from the ho We will be patient, and assuage the feel. clime ing
Of Arab deserts brought, We may not wholly stay ;
Within this glass becomes the spy o By silence sanctifying, not concealing, Time, The grief that must have way.
The minister of Thought.
ow many weary centuries has it been The vision vanishes! These walls again About those deserts blown !
Shut out the lurid sun, ow many strange vicissitudes has seen, Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; How many histories known !
The half-hour's sand is run ! -rhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite Trampled and passed it o'er,
BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 'hen into Egypt from the patriarch's sight
BLACK shadows fall His favorite son they bore.
From the lindens tall,
That lift aloft their massive wall erhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and Against the southern sky;
bare, Crushed it beneath their tread;
And from the realms r Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air of the shadowy elms Scattered it as they sped ;
A tide-like darkness overwhelms
The fields that round us lie. r Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Held close in her caress,
But the night is fair, Those pilgrimage of hope and love and
And everywhere faith
A warm, soft vapor fills the air,
And distant sounds seem near ; Illumed the wilderness ;
And above, in the light r anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms
Of the star-lit night, Pacing the Dead Sea beach,
Swift birds of passage wing their flight .nd singing slow their old Armenian
Through the dewy atmosphere. psalms In half-articulate speech ;
I hear the beat
Of their pinions fleet,
With westward steps depart; They seek a southern lea.
I hear the cry
Of their voices high
But their forms I cannot see.
In murmurs of delight and woe
pand ; Before my dreamy eye
They are the throngs stretches the desert with its shifting of the poet's songs, sand,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and Its unimpeded sky.
The sound of winged words.
This is the cry
On toiling, beating pinions, fly,
Seeking a warmer clime.
From their distant flight The column and its broader shadow Through realms of light run,
It falls into our world of night, Till thought pursues in vain. With the murmuring sound of rhyme. THE OPEN WINDOW. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
of the dismal days of yore, The old house by the lindens
And as soon as the horn was empty Stood silent in the shade,
They remembered one Saint more. And on the gravelled pathway. The light and shadow played. And the reader droned from the pulpi
Like the murinur of many bees, I saw the nursery windows
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chin
ney, They walked not under the lindens, And the Abbot bowed his head, They played not in the hall ;
And the flamelets flapped and flickered But shadow, and silence, and sadness But the Abbot was stark and dead. Were hanging over all.
Yet still in his pallid fingers The birds sang in the branches,
He clutched the golden bowl, With sweet, familiar tone ;
In which, like a pearl dissolving, But the voices of the children
Had sunk and dissolved his soul. Will be heard in dreams alone!
But not for this their revels And the boy that walked beside me, The jovial monks forbore, He could not understand
For they cried, “Fill high the goblet! Why closer in mine, ah ! closer,
We must drink to one Saint more!' I pressed his warm, soft hand !
By his evening fire the artist
Pondered o'er his secret shame; WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,
Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Ere yet his last he breathed,
Still he mused, and dreamed of famı To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed,
'T was an image of the Virgin
That had tasked his utmost skill; That, whenever they sat at their revels, But, alas ! his fair ideal And drank from the golden bowl,
Vanished and escaped him still. They might remember the donor,
From a distant Eastern island And breathe a prayer for his soul.
Had the precious wood been brought
Day and night the anxious master
Åt his toil untiring wrought;
Sat he now in shadows deep,
And the day's humiliation They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
Found oblivion in sleep. They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Then a voice cried, “Rise, O master!
Who had preached his holy word. From the burning brand of oak
pe the thought that stirs within Patiently, and still expectant, thee!”
Looked he through the wooden bars, And the startled artist woke, - Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,
Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; ke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing Till at length the bell at midnight wood;
Sounded from its dark above, d therefrom he carved an image, And, from out a neighboring farm-yard, And he saw that it was good.
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. chou sculptor, painter, poet!
Then, with nostrils wide distended, Cake this lesson to thy heart :
Breaking from his iron chain, iat is best which lieth nearest ; And unfolding far his pinions, Shape from that thy work of art. To those stars he soared again.
On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
Lo ! the strange steed had departed, ice into a quiet village,
And they knew not when nor where. Without haste and without heed, the golden prime of morning,
But they found, upon the greensward
Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Strayed the poet's winged steed.
Pure and bright, a fountain flowing
From the hoof-marks in the sod. was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and From that hour, the fount unfailing sheaves,
Gladdens the whole region round, d, like living coals, the apples
Strengthening all who drink its waters, Burned among the withering leaves.
While it soothes them with its sound. vud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim;
TEGNÉR'S DRAPA. was the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him.
I HEARD a voice, that cried, ot the less he saw the landscape,
" Balder the Beautiful In its gleaming vapor veiled ;
Is clearl, is dead !” ot the less he breatheil the odors
And through the misty air That the dying leaves exhaled.
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes. hus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found ; I saw the pallid corpse nd the wise men, in their wisdom,
Of the dead sun Put him straightway into pound.
Borne through the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim hen the sombre village crier,
Lifted the sheeted mists Ringing loud his brazen bell,
Around him as he passed. andered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell.
And the voice forever cried,
“ Balder the Beautiful nd the curious country people,
Is dead, is dead!”
In accents of despair. hus the day passed, and the evening Balder the Beautiful, Fell, with vapors cold and dim ;
God of the summer sun, ut it brought no food nor shelter,
Fairest of all the Gods ! Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Light from his forehead beamed,