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III.

ACCOMPLICES.

(Virginia, 1865.)

THE Soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves
By the Potomac ; and the crisp ground-flower
Lifts its blue cup to catch the passing shower;
The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves
Its tangled gonfalons above our braves.

Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower !
The Southern nightingale that, hour by hour,

In its melodious summer madness raves.

Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand,

With what sweet voices, Nature seeks to screen

The awful Crime of this distracted land,

Sets her birds singing, while she spreads her green Mantle of velvet where the Murdered lie,

As if to hide the horror from God's eye.

IV.

EGYPT.

FANTASTIC Sleep is busy with my eyes :
I seem in some waste solitude to stand
Once ruled of Cheops: upon either hand
A dark, illimitable desert lies,

Sultry and still, a realm of mysteries;

A wide-browed Sphinx, half buried in the sand, With orbless sockets stares across the land, The wofulest thing beneath these brooding skies Where all is woful, weird-lit vacancy.

'Tis neither midnight, twilight, nor moonrise. Lo! while I gaze, beyond the vast sand-sea The nebulous clouds are downward slowly drawn, And one bleared star, faint-glimmering like a bee, Is shut i' the rosy outstretched hand of Dawn.

PAUL H. HAYNE.

I.

ANCIENT FABLES.

YE pleasant myths of eld, why have ye fled?
The earth has fallen from her blissful prime
Of summer years; the dews of that sweet time
Are withered on its garlands sear and dead.
No longer in the blue fields overhead

We list the rustling of immortal wings,
Or hail at eve the kindly visitings

Of gentle Genii to fair fortunes wed:

The seas have lost their Nereids, the sad streams
Their gold-haired habitants, the mountains lone
Those happy Oreads; and the blithesome tone
Of Pan's soft pipe melts only in our dreams :
Fitfully fall the old Faith's broken gleams
On our dull hearts cold as sepulchral stone.

II.

PENT in this common sphere of sensual shows,
I pine for beauty, - beauty of fresh mien,
And gentle utterance, and the charm serene,
Wherewith the hue of mystic dreamland glows;
I pine for lulling music, the repose

Of low-voiced waters, in some realm between
The perfect Aidenn, and this clouded scene.
Of love's sad loss, and passion's mournful throes;
A pleasant country, girt with twilight calm,

In whose fair heaven a moon of shadowy round
Wades through a fading fall of sunset rain;
Where drooping lotos flowers, distilling balm,

Dream by the drowsy streamlets Sleep hath crowned, And Care forgets to sigh, and Patience conquers Pain.

III.

Now, while the Rear-Guard of the flying Year,
Rugged December, on the season's verge,
Marshals his pale Days to the mournful dirge
Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear,

Good friend! turn with me to our in-door cheer;
Draw nigh, the huge flames roar upon the hearth,
And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth,

Sit thee down,

And a rich vintage poet souls hold dear;
Mark how the sweet rogue wooes us!
And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill,
Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown,
Till the funereal blast shall wail no more,

But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill,

And shouts of triumph peal along the shore.

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