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Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,— dare swear, "With Care,"
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan To a Fine Art Museum-that old Sedan chair!
THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
We are spirits clad in veils ;
Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.
Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.
Like the stars that gem the sky,
All is thus but starlight here.
But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth,
We, like parted drops of rain,
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH
THE MORNING STREET. ALONE I walk the morning street, Filled with the silence vague and sweet. All seems as strange, as still, as dead, As if unnumbered years had fled,
THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR.
Letting the noisy Babel lie
The dew is in the morning street.
Where are the restless throngs that pour
While the noon shines?-the hurrying crowd
Whose footsteps make the city loud,-
A city of the world's gray prime,
OUT and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain, Through belts of dusky pine-land And gusty leagues of plain.
Only, at times, a smoke-wreath
With the drifting cloud-rack joins,-
Drearily blows the north wind
And with one foot on the water,
And one upon the shore,
The Angel of Shadow gives warning
Is it the clang of wild-geese,
Is it the Indian's yell,
That lends to the voice of the north wind The tones of a far-off bell?
The voyageur smiles as he listens
To the sound that grows apace; Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface,
The bells of the Roman Mission, That call from their turrets twain To the boatman on the river,
To the hunter on the plain!
SONNET ON PARTING WITH HIS
As one who destined from his friends to part Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile
My tedious hours and lighten every toil, I now resign you! Nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore; When, freed from earth, unlimited its pow
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight; Good man! old man!
He's painted standing bolt upright,
With his hose rolled over his knee;
And he looks like the head
His dining-room was long and wide; Good man! old man!
His spaniels lay by the fireside;
And in other parts, d'ye see, Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats; And he looked like the head
Of an ancient family.
He never turned the poor from his gate;
But was always ready to break the pate
What knight could do a better thing
Of an ancient family.
GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.
PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE.
When from his work the Sculptor stayed
Who stood beside him, half in shade,
"Thus much is saved from chance and change,
That waits for me and thee;
Thy rounded limbs decay,—
"But there thy smile for centuries
On marble lips shall live,-
"Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade The youth of this cold bust;
When this quick brain and hand that made
"When all our hopes and fears are dead,
"This senseless stone, so coldly fair,
That love nor life can warm,
"Its peace no sorrow shall destroy;
"And there upon that silent face
"And strangers, when we sleep in peace, Shall say, not quite unmoved,
So smiled upon Praxiteles
The Phryne whom he loved."
WILLIAM WETMORE STOR (.
THE shades of night were falling fast,
His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongueExcelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright:
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
"Try not the pass," the old man said:
"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
"THE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, The spray of the tempest is white in air, The winds are out with the waves at play, And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.
"The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb, And the lion's whelps are abroad at play,
And I shall not join in the chase to-day."
But the ship sail'd safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee,
And the town that was builded upon a rock
Was swallow'd up in the earthquake shock.
FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
THE WRETCH, CONDEMNED WITH LIFE TO PART.
THE wretch, condemn'd with life to part.
And every pang that rends the heart
Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, Maud and Madge in robes of white,
The prettiest night-gowns under the
WEEP NO MORE.
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
AFTER THE BALL.
THEY sat and comb'd their beautiful
Their long, bright tresses, one by one, As they laugh'd and talk'd in the chamber there,
After the revel was done.
Idly they talk'd of waltz and quadrille, Idly they laugh'd, like other girls, Who over the fire, when all is still, Comb out their braids and curls.
Robe of satin and Brussels lace,
For the revel is through.
And Maud and Madge in robes of white, The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, For the revel is done,
Sit and comb their beautiful hair,
Those wonderful waves of brown and gold,
Till the fire is out in the chamber there,
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, While the fire is out and the house is still, Maud and Madge together,
Curtain'd away from the chilly night, After the revel is done,
Float along in a splendid dream,
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, While a thousand lustres shimmering stream
In a palace's grand saloon.
Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces,
Tropical odors sweeter than musk, Men and women with beautiful faces, And eyes of tropical dusk;
And one face shining out like a star,
One face haunting the dreams of each, And one voice, sweeter than others are, Breaking into silvery speech,
Telling, through lips of bearded bloom,
Two and two, they dreamily walk,
While an unseen spirit walks beside, And all unheard in the lovers' talk, He claimeth one for a bride.
O Maud and Madge, dream on together, With never a pang of jealous fear! For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather Shall whiten another year,
Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb,
Braided brown hair and golden tress, There'll be only one of you left for the bloom
Of the bearded lips to press,—
Only one for the bridal pearls,
The robe of satin and Brussels lace,— Only one to blush through her curls At the sight of a lover's face.
O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white,
The revel of Life is done!