PRELUDE. PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Or where the denser grove receives And all the broad leaves over me With one continuous sound ; A slumberous sound,—a sound that brings The feelings of a dream,- As, when a bell no longer swings, O'er meadow, lake, and stream. Like ships upon the sea; Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere Fancy has been quell'd; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of Eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, Water the green land of dreams, Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild! Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, "Come, be a child once more!" And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow; Oh, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain, As once upon the flower. Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Ye were so sweet and wild! And distant voices seemed to say, "It cannot be ! They pass away! Other themes demand thy lay; Thou art no more a child! "The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living springs; The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, Its clouds are angels' wings. "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea, Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, Where the woodlands bend to see The bending heavens below. "There is a forest where the din Of iron branches sounds! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein, Sees the heavens all black with sin,Sees not its depths, nor bounds. "Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour; Then comes the fearful wintry blast; Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; Pallid lips say, 'It is past! We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write! Yes, into Life's deep stream! HYMN TO THE NIGHT. Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence by its spell of might, As of the one I love. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,― From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before: That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. Thou lay'st thy finger on the lips of Care, Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream !” For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand Within my breast there is no light, I give the first watch of the night And calm, and self-possessed. O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. THE REAPER AND THE THERE IS a Reaper, whose name is Death, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he, "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, |