In those great dungeons of the unforgiven,

Under the space-deep castle walls of heaven.

I know the Church considered it a sin, I know the Duke considered it a shame

That our Alzoni would not stoop to win

What any blunderer, nowaday, may claim,

A niche in Santa Croce,-which hath been,

And is, to them, the very shrine of Fame!

Why, look you, why should one carve out his soul

In bits to meet the world's unthankful stare;

For Ignorance to hold in his control

They looked and pondered on his dreamy history

Whose sudden close had left them broken-hearted,

glare?

mystery,

And they departed.

DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN.

Two mighty angels in the outer blue, With great palm-branches slanting in their hands,

Stood by the golden gate that guards the view

Wherein God's temple stands.

So still they were, the porphyry pillars high

That propt the fretted cornice and the frieze,

Stood not more breathless when the choral sky

Withheld its symphonies.

And golden halos bound their brows in light,

Till each head shone like Saturn with his rings, And to their sandals, beautiful and bright

Went down their crosswise wings. Low at their feet, with pinions all distraught,

As they the Siroc's stormy path had swept,

And ashen cheeks still hot with burning thought,

A spirit sat and wept :

And shed such tears as from the heart can flow

Alone when Hope flies far from our distress,

Leaving no guide athwart the world of woe,

The pathless wilderness.

Thus have I seen some sad and sightless one,

Before a palace with nor hound nor staff,

Sit weeping in the sultry dust, with

none

To speak in his behalf.

But happier far that prisoner from the day,

With all the sunlight mocking his blank eyes,

Than him, whose doomed path forgotten lay

Along the under skies.

Doomed and forgotten! These are sounds attuned

To all the world conceives of misery

wave swooned

Above us in the sea!

Doomed and forgotten-by our God forgot,

Who noteth even the sparrow in his fall;

With whom the smallest living thing is not

For His great care too small.

Doomed and forgotten—at the angels'

feet

He sat with dull and weary wings deprest,

But now, where once the song of peace was sweet,

There came no voice of rest.

There was a time, while yet his cheek's soft glow

Bloomed in the boyhood of his earthly years,

He had a vision, which no man may know,

That drowned his eyes with tears.

where it lay

She sings in Zurich's chapel choir,

Where rolls the organ on the air, And bells proclaim, from spire to spire, Their universal call to prayer. But let me hear the mountain rills, And old St. Bernard's storm-bell toll,

And, 'mid these great cathedral hills, The thundering avalanches roll.

My brother wears a martial plume, And serves within a distant land,The flowers that on his bosom bloom Are placed there by a stranger hand. Love meets him but in foreign eyes, And greets him in a foreign speech:

But she who to my heart replies Must speak the tongue these mountains teach.

Who, when He saw the truant sprite, Smiled love through all those bowers of light.

While deep within his trancéd spell, Our Eden sire lay slumbering near, God saw, and said, "It is not well For man alone to linger here." Then took that angel by the hand, And with a kiss its brow He prest, And whispering all His mild command,

He laid it on the sleeper's breast; With earth enough to make it human, He chained its wings, and called it

WOMAN.

And if perchance some stains of rust
Upon her pinions yet remain,
'Tis but the mark of God's own dust,
The earth-mould of that Eden

chain!

THE CITY OF GOD.

"Heaven lies about us in our infancy."-WORDS

WORTH.

ERE the rose and the roseate hues of With the dews of my youth, were all the dawn, scattered and gone;

Ere the cloud, like the far-reaching wing of the night,

Had shut out the glory of God from my sight,

I saw a wide realm in the azure unWhere the fields nodded towards me fold, their flowers of gold; And the soft airs sailed o'er them, and dropt from above,

As if shed from innumerous pinions of love:

There were trees with broad boles steeped in perfume and dew, While their full breasts forever leaned up to the blue

And within their wide bosoms the winds seemed to rest With the calm like the sleep of a soul that is blest;

Or, if any light rustle stole out from their limbs,

'Twas the murmurous music of deli

cate hymns

As if some dear angel sat singing within

To a spirit just won from the regions of sin:

There were streams which seemed born but in slumberous bowers, Stealing down, like a dream, through the sleep of the flowersSo pure was the azure they won from the height, The blue hills seemed melting to rivers of light;

And within this fair realm, where but angels have trod,

I beheld, as I thought, the great CITY OF GOD!

All its high walls were pierced with no engines of Death

No moat, with its dull pool, lay stagnant beneath :

The last bolts, I ween, the stout heart has to fear,

Are pointed and sped from Death's citadel here;

And the last hungry moat the pure soul has to brave,

Ere it passes the portal to bliss, is the grave! There the wide wall went cast till it

dimmed to the viewAnd the wide wall went west till it passed into blue;

And the broad gates stood open, inviting that way,

Like the hands of the Lord to his children astray.

There were high towers, climbing still dazzlingly higher,

Till each shone like a fixed guiding pillar of fire;

And the angels who watched on their

summits afar,

So lessened by distance, gleamed each

as a star:

And the great dome that templed the Father in light,

Seemed to swell and to circle and swell on the sight

As some angel who cleaves his bright way 'mid the spheres, Beholds the blue dome of the earth as

he nears.

There was music-my soul unto memory yields,

And hears the low sounds floating over the fields