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, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,

Water the green land of dreams,
The holy land of song.

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!

B

;

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!

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! All forms of sorrow and delight,

All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright,Be these henceforth thy theme.'

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,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the
Night,

As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,

Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

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:

Thou layst thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!

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;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

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,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
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. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.

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 And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand,
And I am strong again.,

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars;

I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,

Be resolute and calm.

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
FLOWERS.

THERE is a Reaper, whose name is
Death,

And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 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.