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النشر الإلكتروني

Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is

born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,

Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

In the centre of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-
like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection

We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of

man,

That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,

In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep churchbell

Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY. ING YEAR.

YES, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,

A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain !

There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crowned with wild flowers and with
heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!

|Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist or stain !

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,

"Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,

And be swept away!

His joy! his last! O, the old man gray For there shall come a mightier blast,

Loveth that ever-soft voice,

Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,

To the voice gentle and low

There shall be a darker day;

And the stars, from heaven down-cast
Like red leaves be swept away!

Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson !

EARLIER POEMS.

[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."]

AN APRIL DAY.

WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

"T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with
bright forms,

Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;

Though stricken to the heart with winter's | And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,

cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings

Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills

The silver woods with light, the green slope throws

Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,

Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared

clouds.

Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,

Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales

The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate

wooer,

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life

Within the solemn woods of ash deepcrimsoned,

And silver beech, and maple yellowleaved,

Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down

In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching By the wayside a-weary. Through the

far,

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trees

The golden robin moves. The purple

finch,

That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud

From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings,

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth

Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks

On duties well performed, and days well spent!

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,

Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.

He shall so hear the solemn hymn that
Death

Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

WOODS IN WINTER.

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the

gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green,

And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM.

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S

BANNER.

WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The crimson banner, that with prayer
Had been consecrated there.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,

Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,

When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering
breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it, till our homes are free!
Guard it! God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him! he our love hath shared!
Spare him! as thou wouldst be
spared!

"Take thy banner! and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's
bier,

And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be

Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

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