Amid the uproar of the storm,

And by the lightning's sharp, red glare,

Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form; His axe glanced quick in air: Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge?

There's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's edge.

THE SPECTRE HORSE.

HE's now upon the spectre's back, With rein of silk and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed!—the rein is slack Within his senseless hold; Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides,

Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides.

He goes with speed; he goes with dread! And now they're on the hanging steep!

And, now! the living and the dead,

They 'll make the horrid leap! The horse stops short;- his feet are on the verge.

He stands, like marble, high above the surge.

And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars, and crackling flame.

From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet 's the same! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night,

On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light.

Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. He ne'er again will curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip! And yet he does not speak, or make a

sound!

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THANATOPSIS.

187

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around

Earth, and her waters, and the depths of

air

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the

aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beanty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on

men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out

their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:

In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,

Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall · A flower from its cerulean wall.

189

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encountered in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave,

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and stagger-
ing wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry, -
O, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown,

not.

yet faint thou

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,

The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here!

Another hand the sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

FROM "THE RIVULET."

AND I shall sleep; and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age, and die.
But thou, unchanged from year to year,
Gayly shalt play and glitter here:
Amid young flowers and tender grass
Thy endless infancy shalt pass;
And, singing down thy narrow glen,
Shalt mock the fading race of men.

The patter of his little feet,
Sweet frowns and stammered phrases
sweet;

And graver looks, serene and high,
A light of heaven in that young eye:
All these shall haunt us till the heart
Shall ache and ache, and tears will start.

The bow, the band, shall fall to dust;
The shining arrows waste with rust;
And all of Love that earth can claim
Be but a memory and a name.

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell,
A prisoner in this narrow cell;
But he, whom now we hide from men
In the dark ground, shall live again, —

Shall break these clods, a form of light,
With nobler mien and purer sight,
And in the eternal glory stand
Highest and nearest God's right hand.

THE BURIAL OF LOVE.

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,
Sat where a river rolled away,
With calm, sad brows, and raven hair;
And one was pale, and both were fair.

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers

unblown;

Bring forest blooms of name unknown; Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,

To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep;
And fold his hands in sign of rest,
His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And bluebirds, in the misty spring,
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.
Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around
His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss
His ready smile, his ready kiss,

ELIZABETH BARRETT

BROWNING.

[1809-1861.]

THE SLEEP.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
He giveth His beloved sleep"?
For gift or grace surpassing this,

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved;

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep;
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse;
The monarch's crown, to light the
brows?

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved;
A little dust, to overweep;
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake.
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away