Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,"

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.

Blow, winds! and waft through all the

rooms

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.

LABOR with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still

Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,

At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer, Like a mendicant it waits;

Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday

Each to-day is heavier made;

Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams,

Pressing on us everywhere.

And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,

On their shoulders held the sky.

WEARINESS.

O LITTLE feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your
load;

I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask ;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your
task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned,

With passions into ashes turned

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light

Direct from heaven, their source di-
vine ;

Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,

How lurid looks this soul of mine!

FATA MORGANA.

O SWEET illusions of Song,
That tempt me everywhere,
In the lonely fields, and the throng
Of the crowded thoroughfare!

I approach, and ye vanish away,
I grasp you, and ye are gone;
But ever by night and by day,

The melody soundeth on.

As the weary traveller sees

In desert or prairie vast,
Blue lakes, overhung with trees,
That a pleasant shadow cast;

Fair towns with turrets high,

And shining roofs of gold,
That vanish as he draws nigh,
Like mists together rolled,

So I wander and wander along,
And forever before me gleams
The shining city of song,

In the beautiful land of dreams.

But when I would enter the gate

Of that golden atmosphere, It is gone, and I wander and wait For the vision to reappear.

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. EACH heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls!

On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the walls!

And mine at times is haunted

By phantoms of the Past, As motionless as shadows

By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window,

That is not seen by day,

For as soon as the dawn approaches It vanishes away.

It sits there in the moonlight,
Itself as pale and still,
And points with its airy finger
Across the window-sill.

Without, before the window,
There stands a gloomy pine,
Whose boughs wave upward and down-
ward

As wave these thoughts of mine.

And underneath its branches

Is the grave of a little child, Who died upon life's threshold, And never wept nor smiled.

What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! That haunt my troubled brain? That vanish when day approaches, And at night return again?.

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!
But the statues without breath,
That stand on the bridge overarching
The silent river of death?

THE MEETING.

AFTER So long an absence

At last we meet again:

Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,

And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other

In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,

And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.

VOX POPULI.

WHEN Mazárvan the Magician,
Journeyed westward through Cathay,
Nothing heard he but the praises
Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumor ended

When he came to Khaledan, There the folk were talking only

Of Prince Camaralzaman.

So it happens with the poets: Every province hath its own; Camaralzaman is famous

Where Badoura is unknown.

THE CASTLE-BUILDER.

A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken locks,

A dreamy boy, with brown and tender

eyes, A castle-builder,

blocks,

with his wooden

And towers that touch imaginary
skies.

A fearless rider on his father's knee,
An eager listener unto stories told
At the Round Table of the nursery,

Of heroes and adventures manifold.

There will be other towers for thee to build;

There will be other steeds for thee to ride;

There will be other legends, and all filled

With greater marvels and more glorified.

Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,

Rising and reaching upward to the
skies;

Listen to voices in the upper air,
Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.

CHANGED.

FROM the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
I behold the shadowy crown

Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.
Bright as ever flows the sea,

Bright as ever shines the sun,
But alas! they seem to me
Not the sun that used to be,
Not the tides that used to run.

THE CHALLENGE.

I HAVE a vague remembrance
Of a story, that is told
In some ancient Spanish legend
Or chronicle of old.

Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
For thy sure approach perceiving,
In my constancy and pain
I new life should win again,
Thinking that I am not living.
So to me, unconscious lying,
All unknown thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.

Unto him who finds thee hateful,
Death, thou art inhuman pain;
But to me, who dying gain,
Life is but a task ungrateful.
Come, then, with my wish complying,
All unheard thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.

4.

Glove of black in white hand bare,
And about her forehead pale
Wound a thin, transparent veil,
That doth not conceal her hair;
Sovereign attitude and air,
Cheek and neck alike displayed,
With coquettish charms arrayed,
Laughing eyes and fugitive;
This is killing men that live,
'Tis not mourning for the dead.

AFTERMATH.

WHEN the Summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown,

And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow

And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours;

Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom.

EPIMETHEUS,

OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUght. HAVE I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision,

When to marches hymeneal

In the land of the Ideal

Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian? What are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances

As with magic circles bound me? Ah! how cold are their caresses!

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms !

O my songs! whose winsome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures
Fade and perish with the capture?

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden;
Voices single, and in chorus,
Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.

Disenchantment!

Disillusion ! Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion, Lassitude, renunciation ?

Not with steeper fall nor faster,

From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster,

Icarus fell with shattered pinions!

Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora,

If to win thee is to hate thee?

No, not hate thee! for this feeling

Of unrest and long resistance
Is but passionate appealing,
A prophetic whisper stealing

O'er the chords of our existence.

Him whom thou dost once enamor,
Thou, beloved, never leavest;
In life's discord, strife, and clamor,
Still he feels thy spell of glamour;

Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest.