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And startled at the sight, like the weird

woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells

of Lynn!


He is dead, the heautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose

pleasant word,
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,
He was humming the words of some old

*' Two red roses he had on his cap,
And another he bore at the point of his

Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead; But he made 11o answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed; And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,

And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant

Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.


How many lives, made beautiful and sweet

By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without

complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshoddeU


Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint

Around the shining forehead of the saint,

And are in their completeness incomplete!

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,

The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, —

A vision, a delight, and a desire, — The builder's perfect and centennial flower,

.That in the night of ages bloomed alone,

But wanting still the glory of the spire.


'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep

My little lambs are folded like the flocks;

From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks

Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep

Their solitary watch on tower and steep;

Far oil' I hear the crowing of the cocks,

And through the opening door that

time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow


To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,

Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,

And tremble to be happy with the rest."

And I make answer: "lam satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best;

God hath already said what shall betide."


Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,

Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet

Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;

Far off the noises of the world retreat;

The loud vociferations of the street

Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day,

And leave my burden at this minster gate,

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed
to pray,

The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.


How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves

Birds build their nests ; while canopied

with leaves Parvis and portal bloom like trellised


And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!

But fiends and dragons on the gar

goyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the

living thieves, And, underneath, the traitor Judas


Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,

What exultations trampling on despair,

What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, Uprose this poem of the earth and air, This mediaeval miracle of song!


I F.N'TF.R, and I see thee in the gloom
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
And strive to make my steps keep
pace with thine.

The air is filled with some unknown perfume;

The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;

Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's

groves of pine The hovering echoes fly from tomb to


From the confessionals l hear arise
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,
And lamentations from the crypts be-

And then a voice celestial, that begins With the pathetic words, "Although your sins

As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."


With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,

She stands before thee, who so long ago

Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe

From which thy song and all its splendors came; And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,

The ice about thy heart melts as the snow

On mountain heights, and in swift overflow

Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs

of shame.

Thou makest full confession ; and a gleam,

As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,

Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;

Lethe and Eunoe — the remembered dream

And the forgotten sorrow — bring at last

That perfect pardon which is perfect peace.


I LIFT mine eyes, and all the windows blaze

With forms of saints and holy men

who died, Here martyred and hereafter glorified

And the great Rose upon its leaves displays

Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays,

With splendor upon splendor multiplied;

And Beatrice again at Dante's side No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs

Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love,

And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; And the melodious bells among the spires O'er all the house-tops and through

heaven above
Proclaim the elevation of the Host!


O Star of morning and of liberty! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines

Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea, The voices of the mountains and the pines,

Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,

In their own language hear thy wondrous word,

And many are amazed and many doubt.



L'Académie en respect,
Nonobstant l'incorrection
A la faveur du sujet,

N'y fera point de rature;
Noël! ture-lure-lure.

Ooi BarÔzai.

Quand les astres de Noël
Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel,

Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, Chantaient gaîment dans le givre,

"Bons amis
Allons donc chez Agassiz!"

Ces illustres Pèlerins
D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins,
Se donnant des airs de prêtre,
A l'envi se vantaient d'être

"Bons amis
De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"

Œil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,
Sans reproche et sans pudeur,
Dans son patois de Bourgogne,
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,

"Bons amis,
J'ai dansé chez Agassiz!"

Verzenay le Champenois,
Bon Français, point New-Yorquois,
Mais des environs d'Avize,
Fredonne à mainte reprise,

"Bons amis,
J'ai chanté chez Agassiz!"

A côté marchait un vieux
Hidalgo, mais non mousseux;
Dans le temps de Charlemagne
Fut son père Grand d'Espagne!

"Bons amis
J'ai diné chez Agassiz!"

Derrière eux un Jiordelais,
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,
Parfumé de poésie
Riait, chantait, plein de vie,

"Bons amis,
J'ai soupé chez Agassiz!"

Avec ce beau cadet roux,
Bras dessus et bras dessous,
Mine altière et couleur terne,
Vint le Sire de Sauterne;

"Bons amis,
J'ai couché chez Agassiz!"

Mais le dernier de ces preux,
Etait un pauvre Chartreux,
Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,
"Bénédictions sur le Juste!

Bons amis
Bénissons Père Agassiz!"
lis arrivent trois a trois,
Montent l'escalier de bois
Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme
Peut permettre ce vacarme,

Bons amis,
A la porta d'Agassiz!

'' Ouvrez done, mon bon Seigneur, Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur; Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes

Gens de bien et gentilshommes,

Bons amis
De la famille Agassiz!"

Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous!
C'en est trop de vos glouglous;
Epargnez aux Philosophes
Vos abominables strophes!

Bons amis,
Respectez mon Agassiz!



The Citadel of Antiochus at Jerusalem.

Scene I. — Antiochus ; Jason.

Antiochus. O Antioch, my Antioch, my city!

Queen of the East! my solace, my delight!

The dowry of my sister Cleopatra When she was wed to Ptolemy, and now

Won back and made more wonderful by me!

I love thee, and I long to be once more Among the players and the dancing women

Within thy gates, and bathe in the Orontes,

Thy river and mine. O Jason, my

High-Priest, For I have made thee so, and thou art


Hast thou seen Antioch the Beautiful?

Jason. Never, my Lord.

Ant. Then hast thou never seen

The wonder of the world. This city of David

Compared with Antioch is but a village,

And its inhabitants compared with

Are mannerless boors.

Jason. They are barbarians,

And mannerless.

Ant. They must be civilized.

They must be made to have more gods

than one; And goddesses besides.

Jason. They shall have more.

Ant. They must have hippodromes, and games, and baths, Stage-plays and festfvals, and most of all The Dionysia.

Jason. They shall have them all. Ant. By Heracles! but I should like to see

These Hebrews crowned with ivy, and arrayed

In skins of fawns, with drums and

flutes and thyrsi, Revel and riot through the solemn


Of their old town. Ha, ha! It makes me merry

Only to think of it !— Thou dost not laugh.

Jason. Yea, I laugh inwardly.

Ant. The new Greek leaven

Works slowly in this Israelitish dough! Have I not sacked the Temple, and on the altar

Set up the statue of Olympian Zeus
To Hellenize it?
Jason. Thou hast done all this.

Ant. As thou wast Joshua once and
now art Jason,
And from a Hebrew hast become a

So shall this Hebrew nation be translated,

Their very natures and their names be

changed, And all be Hellenized.

Jason. It shall be done.

Ant. Their manners and their laws and way of living Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn | their language,

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