Time,

Reading the mysteries of the future skies;

Oh, scorn not earth because it is not heaven;

Nor shake the dust against us from your feet,

Because we have rejected what was given!

Still let your tongues the wondrous theme repeat!

Though ye be friendless in this solitude,

Quick-wingéd thoughts, from many an unborn year,

God-sent, shall feed ye with prophetic food,

Like those blest birds which fed the ancient Seer!

And Inspiration, like a wheeléd flame, Shall bear ye upward to eternal fame!

"OH, WHEREFORE SIGH?” Он, wherefore sigh for what is gone, Or deem the future all a night? From darkness through the rosy dawn The stars go singing into light.

And to the pilgrim lone and gray,
One thought shall come to cheer
his breast;-
The evening sun but fades away
To find new morning in the west.

THE WAY.

A WEARY, wandering soul am I, O'erburthened with an earthly weight;

A pilgrim through the world and sky, Toward the Celestial Gate.

Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,
Who all night gaze upon the skies,
Have ye not in the silent hours
Seen aught of Paradise?

Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate With joy, that makes your voices strong,

Have ye not at the golden gate
Caught somewhat of your song?

ING.

GRAY wanderer in a homeless world,
Poor pilgrim to a dusty bier;
On Time's great cycle darkly hurled
From year to year:

See in the sky these words unfurled : "Thy home is here!"

Pale mourner, whose quick tears reveal

Thy weight of sorrow but begun : Not long thy burdened soul shall reel Beneath the sun;

A few swift circles of the wheel,
And all is done.

Though galled with fetters ye have lain,

To vulture hopes and fears a prey; Oh, moan not o'er your ceaseless pain Or slow decay;

For know, the soul thus files its chain And breaks away.

NIGHT.

OH Night, most beautiful and rare! Thou giv'st the heavens their holiest hue,

And through the azure fields of air Bring'st down the gentle dew.

Most glorious occupant of heaven,

And fairest of the earth and sea, The wonders of the sky are given, Imperial Night, to thee!

For thou, with angel music blest,

Didst stand in that dim age afar, And hold upon thy trembling breast Messiah's herald star!

In Olivet thou heard'st Him pray, And wept thy dews in softer light, And kissed his sacred tears away, Thrice blessed, loving Night !

And thou didst overweigh with sleep The watchers at the sepulchre; And heard'st the asking Mary weep Till Jesus answered her.

For more than this thrice blest thou art;

Thou gain'st the unbeliever's brain By entering at the heart!

Old Homer's song in mighty undulations

Comes surging ceaseless up the oblivious main:

I hear the rivers from succeeding nations

Go answering down again. Hear Virgil's strain through pleasant pastures strolling, And Tasso's sweeping through Palestine,

round

And Dante's deep and solemn river rolling

Through groves of midnight pine.

I hear the iron Norseman's numbers ringing

Through frozen Norway like a herald's horn;

And like a lark, hear glorious Chaucer singing

Away in England's morn.

In Rhenish halls, still hear the pilgrim lover

Chant his wild story to the wailing strings,

Till the young maiden's eyes are brimming over

Like the full cup she brings.

And here from Scottish hills the souls

unquiet

Pouring in torrents their perpetual lays,

As their impetuous mountain runnels

riot

In the long rainy days;

The world-wide Shakspeare-the imperial Spenser:

Whose shafts of song o'ertop the angels' seats,

While, delicate as from a silver censer, Float the sweet dreams of Keats!

Nor these alone-for through the growing present,

Westward the starry path of Poesy lies

Her glorious spirit, like the evening crescent,

Comes rounding up the skies.

THE DISTANT MART.

They eddied and whirled, like a waltzing pair,

Till, hand in hand, with laughter and leap

They mingled their misty hair. Over the self-same ledges,

Singing the self-same tune, They passed from April to breezy May,

Toward the fields of June.

They whirled, and danced, and dallied,

And through the meadows slid, Till under the same thick grass and Lowers

Their further course was hid!

I saw two beautiful children
Of one fair mother born,
Playing among the dewy buds
That bloomed beneath the morn.
The same in age and beauty,

The same in voice and size,
The same bright hair upon their necks,
The same shade in their eyes.

Singing the same song ever

In the self-same silvery tune, They passed from April into May, Toward the fields of June.

They whirled, and danced, and dallied The beautiful vales amid,

Till under the same thick leaves and flowers

Their future course was hid.

THE TWINS.

FROM a beautiful lake on the moun

tain

Two rivulets came down,

Prattling awhile to the violets,

'Mid shadows green and brown.

Over beds of golden lustre,

Around by rock and tree, They sang the same tune with their silvery tongues,

And clapped their hands in glee.

LINES WRITTEN IN FLORENCE.

WITHIN this far Etruscan clime,
By vine-clad slopes and olive plains,
And round these walls still left by
Time,

The bound'ries of his old domains:

Here at the dreamer's golden goal, Whose dome o'er winding Arno drops,

Where old Romance still breathes its

soul

Through Poesy's enchanted stops :