And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire.
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire-
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away!

The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ;What was done-what to do-a glance told him both: Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray:

By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils' play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say:
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down to save the day!"

Hurrah, hurrah, for Sheridan!

Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame,-
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester-twenty miles away!"

1864.

THE CLOSING SCENE.

Within the sober realm of leafless trees
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills
O'er the dim waters, widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang

low;

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed

His winter log with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile, armed in gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight; The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint;

And like a star, slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crewCrew thrice, and all was stiller than beforeSilent till some replying warder blew

His alieu horn, and then was heard no more.

Where, erst, the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young;

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,

By every light wind like a censer swung;

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest, and a plenteous year:--

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast, Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at moru, To warn the reapers of the rosy east ;

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn.

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy
gloom;

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo to the distant cottage-loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by

night;

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this-in this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there,
Firing the floor with his inverted torch ;-

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien,

Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

To shake his sapient head, and give The ill he cannot cure a name.

Nor fetch to take the accustomed toll Of the poor sinner bound for death, His brother doctor of the soul,

To canvass with official breath

The future and its viewless things

That undiscovered mystery

Which one who feels death's winnowing wings Must needs read clearer, sure, than he!

Bring none of these! but let me be, While all around in silence lies, Moved to the window near, and see Once more before my dying eyes,

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn,

The wide, aërial landscape spread-The world which was ere I was born, The world which lasts when I am dead.

Which never was the friend of one,
Nor promised love it could not give,
But lit for all its generous sun,
And lived itself, and made us live.

There let me gaze, till I become

In soul with what I gaze on wed! To feel the universe my home;

To have before my mind-instead

Of the sick-room, the mortal strife,
The turmoil for a little breath-
The pure eternal course of life,

Not human combatings with death.

Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear; Then willing let my spirit go

To work or wait elsewhere or here!

DR. ARNOLD.

O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left in vain: Somewhere, surely, afar,

In the sounding labor-house vast, Of being, is practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Yes, in some far-shining sphere,
Couscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the word

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live,
Prompt, unwearied, as here!

Still thou upraisest with zeal
The humble good from the ground,

Sternly repressest the bad,

Still, like a trumpet dost rouse
Those who with half-open eyes
Tread the border-land dim
"Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,
Succorest-this was thy work,
This was thy life upon earth.

AUSTERITY OF POETRY.

That son of Italy who tried to blow,
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth, amid a festal throng,
Sat with his bride to see a public show.

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow
Youth like a star; and what to youth belong-
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way-crash fell a platform! Lo!

'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!
Shuddering, they drew her garments off-aud found
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,
Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.

Thomas Lake Harris.

Harris was born at Fenny-Stratford, England, May 15, 1823, and brought to America when only five years old. The carcer of Harris is a study for the psychologist. Impulsive and impressionable, he became at an early age a Universalist preacher. In 1850 he was one of the leaders in a movement for a communist settlement at Mountain Cove, Fayette County, Virginia. It was not a success. He lectured for a time in opposition to Christianity, but this phase of his doctrinal belief was transient : he claimed a new development, became zealously Christian, and assumed a theosophic authority. He taught that in many mediums the possession is of a demoniac, rather than of an angelic origin; and he admitted that he had at times been under the influence of these "subjective devils," from whom he was now happily free. Believing that his inspiration was at length purely divine,

he became somewhat dictatorial in his tone. There is no evidence that he has not been conscientious and sincere in all his changes. As a writer he is forcible and eloquent. After preaching in London (1859, '60), he returned to the United States, and organized a new society. William Howitt says of him: "He arrives at his conclusions by flashes of intuition." In what appeared to be a state of trance, he dictated his poems, a volume at a time, or as fast as his amanuensis-generally his publisher-could write. The chief of these productions are: "The Epic of the Starry Heavens" (New York, 1854; fourth edition, 1855); "The Lyric of the Morning Land" (1854); "The Lyric of the Golden Age" (1856); “Regina, a Song of Many Days" (London, 1859). The amazing celerity with which these remarkable poems, all showing extraordinary literary facility and bursts of true poetry, were written is attested by Mr. S. B. Brittan and others. Among the distinguished converts who followed Harris was Mr. Lawrence Oliphant, an English author of note. In 1880 Harris was the chief of a society, called "The Brotherhood of the New Life," established at Fountain Grove, Santa Rosa, Cal. He says of his poems: "They are not mine; they are the work of mighty poets in their glory above." In this extraordinary assertion he was doubtless sincere.

THE SPIRIT-BORN.'

Night overtook me ere my race was run,

And mind, which is the chariot of the soul, Whose wheels revolve in radiance like the sun, And utter glorious music as they roll

To the eternal goal,

With sudden shock stood still. I heard the boom Of thunders; many cataracts seemed to pour From the invisible mountains; through the gloom Flowed the great waters; then I knew no more But this, that thought was o'er.

As one who, drowning, feels his anguish cease,
And clasps his doom, a pale but gentle bride,
And gives his soul to slumber and sweet peace,
Yet thrills when living shapes the waves divide,
And moveth with the tide,

So, sinking deep beneath the unknown sea
Of intellectual sleep, I rested there;

I knew I was not dead, though soon to be,
But still alive to love, to loving care,
To sunshine and to prayer.

And Life and Death and Immortality, Each of my being held a separate part;

1 Harris claims to have uttered this under the control of the spirit of Robert Southey, who, it will be remembered, died insane. There is both method and beauty in the "madness "if such it be.

785

Life there, as sap within an o'erblown tree; Death there, as frost, with intermitting smart; But in the secret heart

The sense of immortality, the breath

Of being indestructible, the trust
In Christ, of final triumph over death,
And spiritual blossoming from dust,
And heaven with all the just.

The soul, like some sweet flower-bud yet unblown,
Lay tranced in beauty in its silent cell;
The spirit slept, but dreamed of worlds unknown,
As dreams the chrysalis within its shell
Ere summer breathes her spell.

But slumber grew more deep till morning broke,
The Sabbath morning of the holy skies;

An angel touched my eyelids, and I woke;
A voice of tenderest love said, "Spirit, rise,"-
I lifted up mine eyes,

And lo! I was in Paradise. The beams

Of morning shone o'er landscapes green and gold,
O'er trees with star-like clusters, o'er the streams
Of crystal, and o'er many a tented fold.
A patriarch-as of old

Melchisedec might have approached a guest—
Drew near me, as in reverent awe I bent,
And bade me welcome to the Land of Rest,
And led me upward, wondering, but content,
Into his milk-white tent.

Robert Leighton.

A man of genius and true poetical tastes, Leighton (1822-1869) was a native of Dundee. He engaged in mercantile pursuits in Liverpool. In 1855 he put forth a volume entitled "Rhymes and Poems," which was reprinted in 1861. Another volume of poems from his pen, published in 1869, was received with much favor.

YE THREE VOICES.

Ye glasse was at my lippe,

Clear spirit sparkling was; •

I was about to sippe,

When a voice came from ye glasse; "And would'st thou have a rosie nose, A blotchéd face and vacant eye, A shakey frame that feeblie goes,

A form and feature alle awry,A bodie racked with rheumic paine,

A burnt-up stomach, fevered braine,

A muddie mind that cannot thinke? Then drinke, drinke, drinke."

Thus spoke ye voice and fledde,

Nor any more did say;

But I thought on what it saide, And I threw ye glasse away.

Ye pipe was in my mouth,

Ye first cloude o'er me broke;

I was to blow another,

When a voice came from ye smoke.

Come, this must be a hoaxe!

Then I'll suuffe if I may not smoke; But a voice came from ye boxe! And thus these voices spoke :

"And would'st thou have a swimmie hedde,
A smokie breath aud blackened tooth?
And would'st thou have thy freshness fade,
And wrinkle up thy leafe of youthe?
Would'st have thy voice to lose its tone,
Thy heavenly note a bagpipe's drone?
If thou would'st thy health's channels choke,
Then smoke, smoke, smoke;

Ye pipes of thy sweet music stuffe,
Then suuffe, snuffe, snuffe!"

Thus spoke, and fledde they both;

Glasse! pipe! boxe! in a day,

To lose them was I loath;

Yet I threw them alle away.

Oh! would we be alle healthe, alle lightnesse, Alle youthe, alle sweetness, freshness, brightness, Seeing through every thinge

With minds like ye crystal springe; Oh! would we be just right enougheNot drinke-not smoke-not snuffe.

Then would our forwarde course

To the right be as naturall As it is, withouten force,

For stones downwarde to falle.

BOOKS.

I cannot think the glorious world of mind, Embalmed in books, which I can only see In patches, though I read my moments blind, Is to be lost to me.

I have a thought, that as we live elsewhere, So will those dear creations of the brain; That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there Take up my joy again.

Oh, then the bliss of blisses, to be freed

From all the wants by which the world is driven; With liberty and endless time to read

The libraries of Heaven!

David Atwood Wasson.

AMERICAN.

Wasson was born at West Brookfield, Me., May 14th, 1823. He entered Bowdoin College, but left before the close of his sophomore year. Afterward he studied law, but, declining the practice, turned his attention to theology. His writings have appeared chiefly in the Atlantic Monthly, North American Review, and Christian Examiner. For twelve years he has been a student of the moral and political sciences; and it is understood that he has on hand, nearly complete, an elaborate work on the fundamental principles of political society. An independent thinker, well versed in the highest philosophy, Wasson has also given evidences of high genius as a poet; while he has controverted the materialism of the age with a skill at once logical and scientific. His residence (1880) was West Medford, Mass.

MINISTERING ANGELS TO THE IMPRISONED SOUL.

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

The bread of life we bring, immortal Truth,— The wine of life, pure joy of Love, we bear; Eat, famished heart, regain thy godlike youth, Drink, arid soul, and thy lost hopes repair!

Yet luminous æthers hold the hills of heaven,
Yet breathe its meadows unexhausted balm,
Yet, shining 'mid the groves at morn and even,
The wise with wise have speech in regal calm.

O unforgotten, how couldst thou forget?
O claimed of heaven, claim thy birth divine.
O heir to all things, why in misery yet?
Put forth thy palm, the very stars are thine!

In each, in thee, would fain Existence flower.
We come to quicken all thy death to bloom,
Make live in thee all grace, all peace, all power:
Fling wide the heart-gates! give thy brothers

room!