NIRVANA. 49 NIRVANA. LONG the scholar's glowing page A1 I read the Orient thinker's dream Of things that are not what they seem,Of mystic chant and Soma's rage. The sunlight flooding all the room Yet most I read of who aspire To win Nirvana's deep repose, Of that long way the Spirit goes To reach the absence of desire. But through the music of my book "Oh! leave," it said, "your ancient seers; Than Buddhist's hope or Brahman's fears!" The voice so sweet I could but hear; I sallied forth, with staff in hand, While, mile on mile, the mountain-land Was radiant with the dying year. I heard the startled partridge whirr, Where dropped the chestnut's prickly burr. I saw the miracle of life From death upspringing evermore ; Of tiny forms with beauty rife. I gathered mosses rare and sweet, 'Mid heaps of leaves, wind-gathered up, I trod with half-remorseful feet. The maple's blush I made my own, Its rich, roof-dotted, wide expanse ; The amorous river gayly led. But still, with all I heard or saw There mingled thoughts of that old time, Where Buddha gave his mystic law,— MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSETT. Till, wearied with the lengthy way, On either side the mountains stood, My heart was full as it could hold ; Nirvana's peace my soul had found- 51 While the great moon was mounting higher, And deeper quiet breathed around. 7. W. Chadwick. I MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSETT. WOULD I were a painter, for the sake Of a sweet picture, and of her who led, A fitting guide, with reverential tread, Into that mountain mystery. First a lake Tinted with sunset; next the wavy lines Of far-receding hills; and yet more far, Monadnock lifting from his night of pines His rosy forehead to the evening star. Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachusett laid His head against the West, whose warm light made Menaced the darkness with its golden spear! The brown old farm-house like a bird's-nest hung. With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred : The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard, The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well, The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell; Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung, The welcome sound of supper-call to hear; And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we took, Praising the farmer's home. He only spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake, Like one to whom the far-off is most near; "Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look : I love it for my good old mother's sake, Who lived and died here in the peace of God!" THE CATHEDRAL. The lesson of his words we pondered o'er, As silently we turned the eastern flank 53 Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest sank, Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household ways An earthly echo of the song of praise Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim. J. G. Whittier. THE CATHEDRAL. HELF over shelf the mountain rose ; SHELF And, as we climbed, they seemed the stair That scales a minster's wall to seek Some high-hid cell of prayer. And every stair was carpeted Up, up, o'er ferny pavements still Till on the heights we stood. |