The maid that kept her mother's kine, She sang her song, she kept her kine, Rode through the Monday morn; His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, Her misty hair is faint and fair, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood: "T is not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! THOMAS BURBIDGE. EVENTIDE. COMES Something down with eventide, Upon the river's rippling face, Broke up in many a shallow place; By chance my eye fell on the stream; This knew I in that hour. For then my heart, so full of strife, I and the river, we were one: The shade beneath the bank, I felt it cool; the setting sun Into my spirit sank. A rushing thing in power serene I felt of having ever been Was it a moment or an hour? ROSE TERRY COOKE. [U. S. A.] THE ICONOCLAST. A THOUSAND years shall come and go, His tragic drama still shall play. Ruled by some fond ideal's power, In worship vain, and useless prayer. Ah! where are they who rose in might, Who fired the temple and the shrine, And hurled, through earth's chaotic night, The helpless gods it deemed divine? Cease, longing soul, thy vain desire! What idol, in its stainless prime, But falls, untouched of axe or fire, Before the steady eyes of Time? ANNE C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. He looks, and lo! our altars fall, O, where were courage, faith, and truth, Nor knew that both his steps betray? Come, Time, while here we sit and wait, The soul that knows its god was dust. 259 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. [U. S. A., 1791-1865.] INDIAN NAMES. YE say they all have passed away, That mid the forests where they roamed 'Tis where Ontario's billow Rich tribute from the West, Ye say their cone-like cabins, That clustered o'er the vale, But their memory liveth on your hills, Old Massachusetts wears it And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves; Wachusett hides its lingering voice Your mountains build their monument, Ye call these red-browed brethren Crushed like the noteless worm amid The regions of their power; Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, Ye break of faith the seal, But can ye from the court of Heaven Ye see their unresisting tribes, Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim? Think ye the soul's blood may not cry From that far land to him? WILLIAM H. FURNESS. [U. S. A.] ETERNAL LIGHT. SLOWLY, by God's hand unfurled, Mighty Spirit, ever nigh, Living stars to view be brought Holy Truth, Eternal Right, Let them break upon my sight; JAMES T. FIELDS. [U. S. A.] WORDSWORTH. THE grass hung wet on Rydal banks, The golden day with pearls adorning, When side by side with him we walked To meet midway the summer morning. The west-wind took a softer breath, The sun himself seemed brighter shining, BAYARD TAYLOR. [U. S. A.] THE MOUNTAINS. (From "THE MASQUE OF THE GODS.") HOWE'ER the wheels of Time go round, The vapors and the sunbeams braid, Hath something lost of ancient awe; AN ORIENTAL IDYL. A SILVER javelin which the hills Have hurled upon the plain below, The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills, Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. I hear the never-ending laugh Of jostling waves that come and go, And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars |