"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell
And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
Vain was thy dream of many a year.

Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it droppedCreation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain,

Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ : Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

LYRICS, IDYLLS, AND BALLADS.

Sandalphon.

Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air,-
Have you read it,—the marvellous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,

With his feet on the ladder of light
That, crowded with angels unnumbered
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire

With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song

With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathless
Sandalphon stands listening breathless

To sounds that ascend from below ;-
From the spirits on earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore

In the fervour and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red ;
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend, I know,—

Yet te me eval traŭ tion,
The beautiful, strange superstition,

But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,

All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.

M

And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.

The Captain of the "Northfleet."

So often is the proud deed done by men like this at duty's call; So many are the honours won for us, we cannot wear them all! They make the heroic commonplace and dying thus the natural

way;

And yet, our world-wide English race feels nobler, for that death, to-day!

It stirs us with a sense of wings that strive to lift the earthiest soul;

It brings the thoughts that fathom things to anchor fast where billows roll.

Love was so new, and life so sweet, but at the call he left the wine,

And sprang full-statured to his feet, responsive to the touch

divine.

Nay, Dear, I cannot see you die.

work to do I shall

For me, I have my Up here. Down to the boat. Good-bye. God bless you. see it through.

We read, until the vision dims and drowns; but, ere the pang

be past,

A tide of triumph overbrims and breaks with light from heaven

at last.

Through all the blackness of that night a glory streams from out the gloom;

His steadfast spirit lifts the light that shines till night is over

come.

The sea will do its worst, and life be sobbed out in a bubbling

breath h;

But firmly in the coward strife there stands a man who has conquered Death!

A soul that masters wind and wave, and towers above a sinking deck;

A bridge across the gaping wave, a rainbow rising o'er the wreck. Others he saved; he saved the name unsullied that he gave his wife :

And dying with so pure an aim, he had no need to save his life! Lord, how they shame the life we live, these sailors of our seagirt isle,

Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give, and go down with a heaven ward smile!

The men who sow their lives to yield a glorious crop in lives

to be:

Who turn to England's harvest-field the unfruitful furrows of the sea.

With such a breed of men so brave, the Old Land has not had her day;

But long her strength, with crested wave, shall ride the Seas the proud old way.

The Maids of Attitash.

In sky and wave the white clouds swam,
And the blue hills of Nottingham

Through gaps of leafy green

Across the lake were seen,

When, in the shadow of the ash,
That dreams its dream in Attitash,
In the warm summer weather,
Two maidens sat together.

They sat and watched in idle mood
The gleam and shade of lake and wood,
The beach the keen light smote,
The white sail of a boat,—

Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying,
In sweetness, not in music, dying,-
Hardhack, and virgin's-bower,
And white-spiked clethra-flower.

With careless ears they heard the plash
And breezy wash of Attitash

The wood-bird's plaintive cry,
The locust's sharp reply.

And teased the while, with playful hand,
The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,
Whose uncouth frolic spilled

Their baskets berry-filled.

Then one, the beauty of whose eyes
Was evermore a great surprise,
Tossed back her queenly head,
And, lightly laughing, said,

"No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold
That is not lined with yellow gold;
I tread no cottage-floor;

I own no lover poor.

"My love must come on silken wings,
With bridal lights of diamond rings,-
Not foul with kitchen smirch,
With tallow-dip for torch."

The other, on whose modest head
Was lesser dower of beauty shed,
With look for home-hearths meet,
And voice exceeding sweet,
Answered," We will not rivals be;
Take thou the gold, leave love to me;
Mine be the cottage small,

And thine the rich man's hall.
"I know, indeed, that wealth is good;
But lowly roof and simple food,

With love that hath no doubt, Are more than gold without." Hard by a farmer hale and young His cradle in the rye-field swung, Tracking the yellow plain

With windrows of ripe grain.

And still, whene'er he paused to whet
His scythe, the sidelong glance he met

Of large dark eyes, where strove
False pride and secret love.