Instead of answering cannon comes a small W LISTENING TO MUSIC. HEN on that joyful sea Where billow on billow breaks; where swift waves follow Waves, and hollow calls to hollow; Where sea-birds swirl and swing, And winds through the rigging shrill and sing; Where night is one vast starless shade; Where thy soul not afraid, Though all alone unlonely, Wanders and wavers, wavers wandering: "I COUNT MY TIME BY TIMES THAT I MEET THEE." I COUNT time by times that I meet thee; my These are my yesterdays, my morrows, noons And nights; these my old moons and my new moons. Slow fly the hours, or fast the hours do flee, If thou art far from or art near to me: If thou art far, the birds' tunes are no tunes; Thou art my dream come true, and thou my dream, MORS TRIUMPHALIS. I 'N the hall of the king the loud mocking of many at one; While lo! with his hand on his harp the old bard is undone! One false note, then he stammers, he sobs like a child, he is failing, And the song that so bravely began ends in discord and wailing. Can it be it is they who make merry, 'tis they taunting him? All that in them is best is from him; all they know he has taught; Has the old poet failed, then,—the singer forgotten his part? If now it grow faint and grow still, they have called him above. Ah, never again shall we hear such fierce music and sweet,- But a sound like the voice of the pine, like the roar of the sea And now as he chants those who listen turn pale-are afraid; And he sings of the time that shall be when the earth is grown old, And onward and out soars his song on its journey sublime, This one theme: that whate'er be the fate that has hurt us or joyed, Be it cursing or blessing; or night, or the light of the sun; One thought, and one law, and one awful and infinite power; The laughter of children, and roar of the lion untamed; And the stars in their courses-one name that can never be named. But sudden a silence has fallen, the music has fled; Though he leans with his hand on his harp, now indeed he is dead! In the heart of the world, with the winds and the murmuring tide. THE CELESTIAL PASSION. WHITE and midnight sky, O starry bath, Wash me in thy pure, heavenly, crystal flood; Receive my soul, ye burning, awful deeps; Touch and baptize me with the mighty power O glittering host, O high angelic choir, Silence each tone that with thy music jars; Make me thy child, thou infinite, holy night,- A CHRISTMAS HYMN. TEL ELL me what is this innumerable throng Singing in the heavens a loud angelic song? These are they who come with swift and shining feet From round about the throne of God the Lord of Light to greet. Oh, who are these that hasten beneath the starry sky As if with joyful tidings that through the world shall fly?— The faithful shepherds these, who greatly were afeared When, as they watched their flocks by night, the heavenly host appeared. Who are these that follow across the hills of night A star that westward hurries along the fields of light? Three wise men from the East who myrrh and treasure bring To lay them at the feet of him their Lord and Christ and King. What babe new-born is this that in a manger cries? Near on her lowly bed his happy mother lies. Oh, see the air is shaken with white and heavenly wings- THOU ON A PORTRAIT OF SERVETUS. HOU grim and haggard wanderer who dost look With haunting eyes forth from the narrow page,— I know what fires consumed with inward rage Thy broken frame, what tempests chilled and shook! Ah, could not thy remorseless foeman brook Time's sure devourment, but must needs assuage His anger in thy blood, and blot the age With that dark crime which virtue's semblance took! Servetus! that which slew thee lives to-day, Though in new forms it taints our modern air; Still in heaven's name the deeds of hell are done: Still on the high-road, 'neath the noon-day sun, The fires of hate are lit for them who dare Follow their Lord along the untrodden way. |