Sang in the wild insanity of glee; And seemed, in the same lays, Calling his mate and uttering songs of praise. The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing: The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping, Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing, To the Creator lift a smiling face, Life's countless blessings was to live at all! So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, I went home softly, through the falling dew, Still listening, rapt and calm, To Nature giving out her evening psalm. While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned, Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned; And I, in that great hush, Talked with His angels in each burning bush! O LAND, of every land the best,— Take from your flag its fold of gloom, And let it float undimmed above, Till over all our vales shall bloom The sacred colors that we love. On mountain high, in valley low, A redder glory than the morn. Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, Your veterans from the war-path's track; You gave your boys, untrained, untried; You bring them men and heroes back! And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martyred band; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land. Though by the places where they fell, The places that are sacred ground, Death, like a sullen sentinel, Paces his everlasting round. Yet when they set their country free, And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy, Baffled, beside an empty tomb. 257 Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers; They fought to give us peace, and lo! They gained a better peace than ours. SYDNEY DOBELL. KEITH OF RAVELSTON. O HAPPY, happy maid, In the year of war and death She wears no sorrow! By her face so young and fair, By the happy wreath That rules her happy hair, She might be a bride to-morrow! She sits and sings within her moonlit bower, Her moonlit bower in rosy June, Like fragrance from some sweet nightblowing flower, Moves from her moving lips in many a mournful tune! She sings no song of love's despair, Has ever touched or bud or leaf She sings because she needs must sing; The murmur of the mourning ghost The sorrows of thy line!" Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meeds; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, She sang her song, she kept her kine, Rode through the Monday morn ; His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, Her misty hair is faint and fair, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood: "T is not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! THOMAS BURBIDGE. EVENTIDE. COMES Something down with eventide, Upon the river's rippling face, Broke up in many a shallow place; By chance my eye fell on the stream; This knew I in that hour. For then my heart, so full of strife, I and the river, we were one: The shade beneath the bank, I felt it cool; the setting sun Into my spirit sank. A rushing thing in power serene I felt of having ever been Was it a moment or an hour? ROSE TERRY COOKE. [U. S. A.] THE ICONOCLAST. A THOUSAND years shall come and go, His tragic drama still shall play. Ruled by some fond ideal's power, Ah! where are they who rose in might, Who fired the temple and the shrine, And hurled, through earth's chaotic night, The helpless gods it deemed divine? Cease, longing soul, thy vain desire! What idol, in its stainless prime, But falls, untouched of axe or fire, Before the steady eyes of Time? ANNE C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. 259 So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses, Evil and thankless the desert it blesses, Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses, Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses? What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes? Sweetest is music with minor-keyed closes, Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling. Almost the day of thy giving is over; Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover, Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover. What shall thy longing avail in the grave? Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking, Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking. Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking, Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. [U. S. A., 1791-1865.] INDIAN NAMES. YE say they all have passed away, 'Tis where Ontario's billow Where strong Niagara's thunders wake Rich tribute from the West, Ye say their cone-like cabins, That clustered o'er the vale, But their memory liveth on your hills, Old Massachusetts wears it And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown; Where her quiet foliage waves; Wachusett hides its lingering voice Your mountains build their monument, Ye call these red-browed brethren Crushed like the noteless worm amid The regions of their power; Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, Ye break of faith the seal, But can ye from the court of Heaven Exclude their last appeal? Ye see their unresisting tribes, Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? WILLIAM H. FURNESS. [U. s. A.] ETERNAL LIGHT. SLOWLY, by God's hand unfurled, Mighty Spirit, ever nigh, Living stars to view be brought Holy Truth, Eternal Right, JAMES T. FIELDS. [U. s. A.] WORDSWORTH. THE grass hung wet on Rydal banks, The golden day with pearls adorning, When side by side with him we walked To meet midway the summer morning. The west-wind took a softer breath, The sun himself seemed brighter shining, |