The starless heavens at noon are a delight;

The clouds a wonder in their varying play,

And beautiful when from their mountainous height

The lightning's hand illumes the wall of day:

The noisy storm bursts down, and passing brings

The rainbow poised in air on unsubstantial wings.

But most I love the melancholy night

When with fixed gaze I single out a star,

A feeling floods me with a tender light

A sense of an existence from afar, A life in other spheres of love and bliss,

Communion of true souls—a loneliness in this!

There is a sadness in the midnight sky

An answering fulness in the heart and brain,

And break these galling fetters from our feet,

To lead us up from Time's benighted shore?

Is it for love of this dark cell of dust, Which, tenantless, awakes but horror and disgust?

Long have I mused upon all lovely things:

But thou, oh Death! art lovelier than all; Thou sheddest from thy recompensing wings

A glory which is hidden by the pall

The excess of radiance falling from thy plume

Throws from the gates of Time a shadow on the tomb.

He wore a manly form and face,
A courage firm and bold,
His words fell on his comrades' hearts,
Like precious drops of gold.

They saw not his ambitious soul;
He spoke it not-for lo!

He stood among the common ranks,
Three hundred years ago.

But when Fernandez' vessel lay
At golden Darien,

A murmur, born of discontent,
Grew loud among the men:

And with the word there came the

act;

And with the sudden blow They raised Balboa from the ranks, Three hundred years ago.

And while he took command beneath The banner of his lord,

A mighty purpose grasped his soul,
As he had grasped the sword.

He saw the mountain's fair blue height
Whence golden waters flow;
Then with his men he scaled the crags,
Three hundred years ago.

He led them up through tangled brakes,

The rivulet's sliding bed, And through the storm of poisoned darts

From many an ambush shed.

He gained the turret crag-alone— And wept to see below,

An ocean, boundless and unknown,
Three hundred years ago.

And while he raised upon that height
The banner of his lord,
The mighty purpose grasped him still,
As still he grasped his sword.

Then down he rushed with all his men,

As headlong rivers flow,
And plunged breast-deep into the sea,
Three hundred years ago.

And while he held above his head
The conquering flag of Spain,

He waved his gleaming sword, and

smote

The waters of the main :

For Rome! for Leon! and Castile! Thrice gave the cleaving blow; And thus Balboa claimed the sea, Three hundred years ago.

LABOR.

"LABOR, labor!" sounds the anvil, "Labor, labor, until death !" And the file, with voice discordant, "Labor, endless labor!" saith. While the bellows to the embers Speak of labor in each breath.

"Labor, labor!" in the harvest, Saith the whetting of the scythe, And the mill-wheel tells of labor Under waters falling blithe; "Labor, labor!" groan the millstones,

To the bands that whirl and writhe.

And the woodman tells of labor,
In his echo-waking blows;
In the forest, in the cabin,

'Tis the dearest word he knows.
Labor, labor!" saith the spirit,
And with labor comes repose.

"Labor!" saith the loaded wagon,

Moving toward the distant mart. "Labor!" groans the heavy steamer, As she cleaves the waves apart. Beating like that iron engine,

"Labor, labor !" cries the heart.

Yes, the heart of man cries "labor !" While it labors in the breast.

But the Ancient and Eternal,

In the Word which He hath blest, Sayeth, "Six days shalt thou labor, On the seventh thou shalt rest!"

Then how beautiful at evening,

When the toilsome week is done, To behold the blacksmith's anvil

Die in darkness with the sun; And to think the doors of labor Are all closing up like one.