Along the pebble paths the maid

Walked with the early hours,

With careful hands the vines arrayed,

The past was hers; the coming years No golden promise brought:She gazed upon the midnight spheres To read her future; and the tears Sprang vassals to her thought.

She heard all night through her domain

The river moan below; The whippoorwill and owlet's strain Filled up the measure of her pain In streams of fancied woe.

Thus as the mournful Melanie

Swept through my waking dream,

blade

From formal plots of flowers.

A statued Dian to the air

Bequeathed its mellow light; She called the flying figure fair, The forward eyes and backward hair,

And praised the marble's white.

Her pulses coursed their quiet ways,

From heart to brain controlled; She read and praised in studied phrase The bards whom it were sin to praise

In measured words and cold.

I love the broad bright world of snow,
And every strange device
Which makes the woods a frozen
show,

The rivers hard and still-but, oh,
Ne'er loved a heart of ice.

PICTURE THIRD.

MELANIE.

Within a dusky grove, where wound
Great centenarian vines,
Binding the shadows to the ground,
The dark-eyed Melanie was found

Walking between the pines.

A sudden night of hair was thrown
About her shining neck;

All woes she buried in her own-
Her sea of sadness carried down

All lighter thoughts to wreck.

It is not written thou shalt see

Thy image in this stream.

PICTURE FIFTH.

AMY.

Round Amy's home were pleasant

trees

A quiet summer space Of garden flowers and toiling bees; Below the yellow harvest leas

Waved welcome to the place.

And Amy she was very fair,

With eyes nor dark nor blue; And in her wavy chestnut hair Were braided blossoms, wild and rare, Still shimmering with the dew.

Her pride was the unconscious guise

Which to the pure is given: Her gentle prudence broke to sighs, And smiles were native to her eyes,

As are the stars to heaven.

Here, love, said I, thy rest shall be, Oh, weary, world-worn soul! Long tossed upon this shifting sea, Behold, at last the shore for thee

Displays the shining goal.

Dear Amy, lean above me now,

And smooth aside my hair,

And bless me with thy tender vow, And kiss all memories from my brow, Till thou alone art there.

THE MINERS.

BURROW, burrow, like the mole,
Ye who shape the columned caves!
Ye are black with clinging coal,
Black as fiery Afric's slaves!
Sink the shadowy shaft afar
Deep into our native star!
Rend her iron ribs apart,
Where her hidden treasures are,
Nestled near her burning heart!
Dig, nor think how forests grow
Above your heads-how waters flow
Responsive to the song of birds-
How blossoms paint in silent words
What hearts may feel but cannot
know!

Dig ye, where no day is seen;
Vassals in the train of Night,
Build the chambers for your Queen,

Where with starless locks she lies,
Robbed of all her bright disguise!
There no precious dews alight,
None but what the cavern weeps,
Down its scarred and dusky face!
There's no bird in all the place;
Not a simple flower ye mark,
Not a shrub or vine that creeps
Through the long, long Lapland dark!
Burrow, burrow, like the mole,
Dark of face, but bright of soul!
Labor is not mean or low!
Ye achieve, with every blow,
Something higher than ye know!
Though your sight may not extend
Through your labors to the end,
Every honest stroke ye give,
Every peril that ye brave
In the dark and dangerous cave,
In some future good shall live!

THE WINNOWER. SINGS a maiden by a river,

Sings and sighs alternately; In my heart shall flow forever, Like a stream, her melody. In her hair of flaxen hue

Tend'rest buds and blossoms gleam;
And her beauty glows as through
Hazy splendors of a dream.
Like her melody's rich bars-
Or a golden flood of stars,-
Rustling like a summer rain,
Through her fingers falls the grain,
Swells her voice in such sweet measure,
I must join for very pleasure;
But my lay shall be of her,
Bright and lovely Winnower!

When her song to laughter merges,
Melts the music of her tongue,
Like a streamlet's silver surges
Over golden pebbles flung.
From her hands the grainless chaff
On the light winds dances free;
But a sigh will check her laugh,—
"So much worthlessness, ah me,
Mingles with the good!" saith she.
Yet the grain is fair to see.
Laughter, like some sweet surprise,
Lights again her dewy eyes,
And her song hath drowned her sighs;
Therefore will I sing of her,
Bright and lovely Winnower!

Down beside as fair a river
Sings the Maiden Poesy;
In my heart shall flow forever
Her undying melody.
Through her rosy fingers fall
Golden grains of richest thought;
While the grainless chaff is all

By the scattering breezes caught :"So much worthlessness, ah me, Mingles with the good!" saith she. Yet the grain is bright to see. Therefore laughs she merrily! Laughs and sings in such sweet meas

ure,

I must join for very pleasureWhile my heart keeps time with her, I will praise the Winnower!

FRAGMENTS FROM THE REALM OF DREAMS.

"The baseless fabric of a vision."

OFT have I wandered through the Realm of Dreams,

By shadowy mountains and clear running streams, Catching at times strange transitory gleams

Of Eden vistas, glimmering through a haze

Of floral splendor, where the birds, ablaze

With color, streaked the air, like flying stars,

With momentary bars;

And heard low music breathe above, around,

As if the air within itself made sound,

As if the soul of Melody were pent
Within some unseen instrument
Hung in a viewless tower of air,
And with enchanted pipes beguiled
its own despair.

But stranger than all other dreams which led,

Asleep or waking, my adventurous tread,

Were these which came of late to

me

Through fields of slumber, and did seem to be

Wrapped in an awful robe of prophecy.

27

I walked the woods of March, and

through the boughs

The earliest bird was calling to his

spouse;

And in the sheltered nooks
Lay spots of snow,

Or with a noiseless flow
Stole down into the brooks;
And where the spring-time sun had
longest shone

The violet looked up and found itself alone.

Anon I came unto a noisy river, And felt the bridge beneath me sway and quiver;

Below, the hungry waters howled and hissed,

And upward blew a blinding cloud of mist;

But there the friendly Iris built its arch,

And I in safety took my onward march.

Now coming to a mighty hill,
Along the shelvy pathway of a rill
Which danced itself to foam and spray,
I clomb my steady way.

It may be that the music of the brook Gave me new strength-it may be that I took

Fresh vigor from the mountain air Which cooled my cheek and fanned my hair;

Or was it that adown the breeze Came sounds of wondrous melodies,Strange sounds as of a maiden's voice Making her mountain home rejoice? Following that sweet strain, I

mounted still

And gained the highest hemlocks of the hill,

Old guardians of a little lake, which

sent