rift,

And broken arches of blue sky.

All the bright flowers that fill the land,
Ripple of waves on rock or sand,
The snow on Fusiyama's cone,
The midnight heaven so thickly sown
With constellations of bright stars,
The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make
A whisper by each stream and lake,
The saffron dawn, the sunset red,
Are painted on these lovely jars;
Again the skylark sings, again
The stork, the heron, and the crane
Float through the azure overhead,
The counterfeit and counterpart
Of Nature reproduced in Art.

Art is the child of Nature; yes,
Her darling child, in whom we trace
The features of the mother's face,
Her aspect and her attitude,
All her majestic loveliness
Chastened and softened and subdued
Into a more attractive grace,
And with a human sense imbued.
He is the greatest artist, then,
Whether of pencil or of pen,

Pursuing his own fantasies,

Can touch the human heart, or please,
Or satisfy our nobler needs,
As he who sets his willing feet
In Nature's footprints, light and fleet,
And follows fearless where she leads.

Thus mused I on that morn in May,
Wrapped in my visions like the Seer,
Whose eyes behold not what is near,
But only what is far away,

When, suddenly sounding peal on peal,
The church-bell from the neighboring

town

Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon.
The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel,
His apron on the grass threw down,
Whistled his quiet little tune,
Not overloud nor overlong,
And ended thus his simple song:

Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, too soon
The noon will be the afternoon,

Too soon to-day be yesterday;
Behind us in our path we cast
The broken potsherds of the past,
And all are ground to dust at last,
And trodden into clay!

THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD.

WARM and still is the summer night,
As here by the river's brink I wander;
White overhead are the stars, and white

Sing him the song of the green morass, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

yonder.

And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;

For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,

The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you;

He has singed the beard of the King of
Spain,

And carried away the Dean of Jaen
And sold him in Algiers.

In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles,

And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare.

In his tulip-garden there by the town, Overlooking the sluggish stream, With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, The old sea-captain, hale and brown, Walks in a waking dream.

A smile in his gray mustachio lurks
Whenever he thinks of the King of
Spain,

And the listed tulips look like Turks,
And the silent gardener as he works
Is changed to the Dean of Jaen.

The windmills on the outermost

Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast, With whiskered sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maese.

But when the winter rains begin,

He sits and smokes by the blazing brands,

And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin,

And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine

Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in color and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light.

And they talk of ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the

same,

While they drink the red wine of Tarragon,

From the cellars of some Spanish Don, Or convent set on flame.

Restless at times with heavy strides He paces his parlor to and fro; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides,

And tugs at her anchor-tow.

Voices mysterious far and near,

Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, "Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? Come forth and follow me!"

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his bucca

neers,

To singe the beard of the King of Spain,
And capture another Dean of Jaen
And sell him in Algiers.

CASTLES IN SPAIN.

How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore!
What dreams romantic filled my brain,
And summoned back to life again
The Paladins of Charlemagne
The Cid Campeador!

And shapes more shadowy than these,
In the dim twilight half revealed;
Phoenician galleys on the seas,
The Roman camps like hives of bees,
The Goth uplifting from his knees
Pelayo on his shield.

It was these memories perchance,
From annals of remotest eld,
That lent the colors of romance
To every trivial circumstance,
And changed the form and countenance
Of all that I beheld.

Old towns, whose history lies hid
In monkish chronicle or rhyme, -
Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid,
Zamora and Valladolid,
Toledo, built and walled amid

The wars of Wamba's time;

The long, straight line of the highway,

The distant town that seems so near, The peasants in the fields, that stay Their toil to cross themselves and pray, When from the belfry at midday

The Angelus they hear;

White crosses in the mountain pass,
Mules gay with tassels, the loud din
Of muleteers, the tethered ass
That crops the dusty wayside grass,
And cavaliers with spurs of brass
Alighting at the inn;

White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat,
White cities slumbering by the sea,
White sunshine flooding square and
street,

Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet
The river-beds are dry with heat,
All was a dream to me.

Yet something sombre and severe
O'er the enchanted landscape reigned;
A terror in the atmosphere
As if King Philip listened near,
Or Torquemada, the austere,
His ghostly sway maintained.

The softer Andalusian skies

Dispelled the sadness and the gloom; There Cadiz by the seaside lies, And Seville's orange-orchards rise, Making the land a paradise

Of beauty and of bloom.

There Cordova is hidden among

The palm, the olive, and the vine ; Gem of the South, by poets sung, And in whose Mosque Almanzor hung As lamps the bells that once had rung At Compostella's shrine.

But over all the rest supreme,

The star of stars, the cynosure,
The artist's and the poet's theme,
The young man's vision, the old man's
dream,

Granada by its winding stream,
The city of the Moor!

And there the Alhambra still recalls
Aladdin's palace of delight:
Allah il Allah! through its halls
Whispers the fountain as it falls,
The Darro darts beneath its walls,
The hills with snow are white.

TO THE RIVER YVETTE.

O LOVELY river of Yvette!

O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide.

Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre,

See and salute thee on thy way, And, with a blessing and a prayer,

Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget.

The valley of Chevreuse in vain
Would hold thee in its fond embrace;
Thou glidest from its arms again

And hurriest on with swifter pace.

Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet Pursuing still thine onward flight, Thou goest as one in haste to meet

Her sole desire, her heart's delight.

O lovely river of Yvette!

O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings.

THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE.

COMBIEN faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur? A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent.

ON St. Bavon's tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was standing, While beneath him on the landing

Stood Duke Alva and his train.

Like a print in books of fables,
Or a model made for show,
With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
Lay the city far below.

Through its squares and streets and alleys
Poured the populace of Ghent;
As a routed army rallies,
Or as rivers run through valleys,
Hurrying to their homes they went.

"Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!"

Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; "Haunt of traitors and deceivers, Stronghold of insurgent weavers,

Let it to the ground be razed!"

On the Emperor's cap the feather
Nods, as laughing he replies:
"How many skins of Spanish leather,
Think you, would, if stitched together,
Make a glove of such a size?

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET.

OCTOBER, 1746.

MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A FLEET with flags arrayed

Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal: "Steer southwest.” For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumors in the street,
In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near.
And while from mouth to mouth
Spread the tidings of dismay,
I stood in the Old South,

Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise ; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied,

And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer 1 made,

For my soul was all on flame, And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came; It came with a mighty power,

Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly

Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord! The heavens were black with cloud,

The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale.