‚—a sound that brings A slumberous sound,— As, when a bell no longer swings, O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Dreams that the soul of youth engage And, loving still these quaint old themes, I feel the freshness of the streams, Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; They were my playmates when a child, Still they looked at me and smiled, And ever whispered, mild and low, 'Come, be a child once more! And waved their long arms to and fro, Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Nature with folded hands seemed there, 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, The dreams of youth came back again, Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay! "The land of Song within thee lies, Its clouds are angels' wings. "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, "There is a forest where the din "Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour: Then comes the fearful wintry blast; We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write! HYMN TO THE NIGHT. Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light I felt her presence, by its spell of might, The calm, majestic presence of the Night, I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, From the cool cisterns of the midnight air The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,— O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 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, 66 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! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Lives of great men all remind us Let us, then, be up and doing, THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, "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," "They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, She knew she could find them all again O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 'T was an angel visited the green earth, THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, And the first watch of night is given |