chair!

STANZAS.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

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,
Far apart though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;

All is thus but starlight here.
What is social company

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,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.

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
Breathless and dumb against the sky;
The light wind walks with me alone
Where the hot day flame-like was blown,
Where the wheels roared, the dust was
beat:

The dew is in the morning street.

Where are the restless throngs that pour
Along this mighty corridor

While the noon shines?-the hurrying crowd

Whose footsteps make the city loud,-
The myriad faces, hearts that beat
No more in the deserted street?
Those footsteps in their dreaming maze
Cross thresholds of forgotten days;
Those faces brighten from the years
In rising suns long set in tears;
Those hearts,-far in the Past they beat,
Unheard within the morning street.

A city of the world's gray prime,
Lost in some desert far from time,
Where noiseless ages, gliding through,
Have only sifted sand and dew,-
Yet a mysterious hand of man
Lying on all the haunted plan,
The passions of the human heart
Quickening the marble breast of Art,-
Were not more strange to one who first
Upon its ghostly silence burst
Than this vast quiet where the tide
Of life, upheaved on either side,
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat
With human waves the morning street.

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,-
The smoke of the hunting-lodges
Of the wild Assiniboins!

Drearily blows the north wind
From the land of ice and snow;
The eyes that look are weary,
And heavy the hands that row.

And with one foot on the water,

And one upon the shore,

The Angel of Shadow gives warning
That day shall be no more.

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

BOOKS.

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

ers,

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,

And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

WILLIAM ROSCOE.

SIR MARMADUKE.

SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight; Good man! old man!

He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose rolled over his knee;
His periwig's as white as chalk,
And on his fist he holds a hawk,

And he looks like the head
Of an ancient family.

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;
Good man! old man!

But was always ready to break the pate
Of his country's enemy.

What knight could do a better thing
Than serve the poor and fight for his king?
And so may every head

Of an ancient family.

GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE.
A THOUSAND silent years ago,
The twilight faint and pale
Was drawing o'er the sunset glow
Its soft and shadowy veil;

When from his work the Sculptor stayed
His hand, and turned to one

Who stood beside him, half in shade,
Said, with a sigh, “'Tis done.

"Thus much is saved from chance and change,

That waits for me and thee;
Thus much-how little!-from the range
Of Death and Destiny.
"Phryne, thy human lips shall pale,

Thy rounded limbs decay,—
Nor love nor prayers can aught avail
To bid thy beauty stay;

"But there thy smile for centuries

On marble lips shall live,-
For Art can grant what love denies,
And fix the fugitive.

"Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade The youth of this cold bust;

When this quick brain and hand that made
And thou and I are dust!

"When all our hopes and fears are dead,
And both our hearts are cold,
And love is like a tune that's played,
And Life a tale that's told,

"This senseless stone, so coldly fair,

That love nor life can warm,
The same enchanting look shall wear,
The same enchanting form.

"Its peace no sorrow shall destroy;
Its beauty age shall spare
The bitterness of vanished joy,
The wearing waste of care.

"And there upon that silent face
Shall unborn ages see
Perennial youth, perennial grace,
And sealed serenity.

"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,
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner, with the strange device-
Excelsior!

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,
And from his lips escaped a groan—
Excelsior!

"Try not the pass," the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd with a sigh,
Excelsior!

FATE.

"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.
Still, still on hope relies,

And every pang that rends the heart
Bids expectation rise.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

WEEP NO MORE.

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone;
Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully,
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see;
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair one, mourn no mo.

JOHN FLETCHER.

AFTER THE BALL.

THEY sat and comb'd their beautiful

hair,

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,
Knots of flowers and ribbons, too,
Scatter'd about in every place,

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,
And the little bare feet are cold.
Then out of the gathering winter chill,

All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, While the fire is out and the house is still, Maud and Madge together,

sun,

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,
An old, old story over again,
As down the royal banner'd room,
To the golden gittern's strain,

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,
For you the revel has just begun,
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-
night

The revel of Life is done!