More rounded in itself and more complete,

Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.

These pines, that murmur in low monotone,

These walks frequented by scholastic feet,

Were all his world; but in this calm

retreat

For him the Teacher's chair became a throne.

With fond affection memory loves to dwell On the old days, when his example made

A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen; And now, amid the groves he loved so well That naught could lure him from their grateful shade,

He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for
God hath said, Amen!

THE HARVEST MOON.

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

NOS.

I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and

blending

Thy voice with other voices far away. I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay,

But turbulent, and with thyself contending,

And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending,

Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay. Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings,

Regrets and recollections of things past, With hints and prophecies of things to be,

And inspirations, which, could they be things,

And stay with us, and we could hold
them fast,
Were our good angels,
to thee.

IV.

these I owe

And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing;

I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing,

I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and
calls,

And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's
halls,
Mysterious phantoms, coming, beck-
oning, going!

It is the mystery of the unknown
That fascinates us; we are children
still,

Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling

To the familiar things we call our own, And with the other, resolute of will, Grope in the dark for what the day will bring.

A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, So that thereof no vestige now remains; Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear,

And echoed in another hemisphere, Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.

St. Botolph's Town! Far over leagues of land

And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower,

And far around the chiming bells are heard ;

So may that sacred name forever stand A landmark, and a symbol of the power, That lies concentred in a single word.

ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE.

I STAND beneath the tree, whose branches shade

Thy western window, Chapel of St.
John !

And hear its leaves repeat their benison On him, whose hand thy stones memorial laid;

Then I remember one of whom was said In the world's darkest hour, "Behold thy son!"

And see him living still, and wandering on

And waiting for the advent long delayed.

Not only tongues of the apostles teach Lessons of love and light, but these expanding

And sheltering boughs with all their leaves implore,

And say in language clear as human speech,

"The peace of God, that passeth understanding

Be and abide with you forevermore !"

Truly I envy not, I marvel rather; on all sides

In all the fields is such trouble. Behold,

my goats I am driving, Heartsick, further away; this one scarce, Tityrus, lead I;

For having here yeaned twins just now among the dense hazels, Hope of the flock, ah me! on the naked flint she hath left them.

Often this evil to me, if my mind had not been insensate, Oak-trees stricken by heaven predicted, as now I remember; Often the sinister crow from the hollow ilex predicted. Nevertheless, who this god may be, o Tityrus, tell me.

TITYRUS.

O Melibœus, the city that they call
Rome, I imagined,
Foolish I! to be like this of ours, where
often we shepherds

Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the delicate offspring.

Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, and kids to their mothers, Thus to compare great things with small had I been accustomed.

But this among other cities its head as far hath exalted

As the cypresses do among the lissome viburnums.

MELIBUS.

And what so great occasion of seeing Rome hath possessed thee?

TITYRUS.

Liberty, which, though late, looked upon me in my inertness,

After the time when my beard fell whiter from me in shaving,

Yet she looked upon me, and came to me after a long while,

Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea hath left me.

For I will even confess that while Galatea possessed me

Neither care of my flock nor hope of liberty was there.

Though from my wattled folds there went forth many a victim, And the unctuous cheese was pressed for the city ungrateful,

Never did my right hand return home heavy with money.

MELIBEUS.

I have wondered why sad thou invokedst the gods, Amaryllis, And for whom thou didst suffer the apples to hang on the branches! Tityrus hence was absent! Thee, Tityrus, even the pine-trees, Thee, the very fountains, the very copses were calling.

TITYRUS.

What could I do? No power had I to Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize escape from my bondage, gods so propitious.