Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung, And timed the sweet pulse of the praise as they

sung,

Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun.

You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down; And dear Sister Green, with more goodness than grace,

Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place,

And where "Coronation" exultantly flows, Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her

toes.

To the land of the leal they have gone with their song,

Where the choir and the chorus together belong. O, be lifted, ye Gates! Let me hear them again, Blessed song, blessed singers, forever! Amen.

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687.

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began;
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold and hot, and moist and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony,
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell, His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell,

To worship that celestial sound.

Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!

Connection exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguished link in being's endless chain !
Midway from nothing to the Deity !

A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt !
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust !
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

A worm a god! - I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost. At home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast,
And wondering at her own. How reason reels!

bed;

Wailing so wearily under the stars;

Why should I think of her tears, that might light to me

Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars?

Is she not like her whenever she stirs ?
Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one!

Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me,
Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers?

Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one,
Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave,
Something more white than her bosom is spared
to me,

Something to cling to and something to crave.

Love, love, Ellen my little one!
Love indestructible, love undefiled,
Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me,
Oft as I look on the face of her child.

ARTHUR J. MUNDY.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

THE wind blew wide the casement, and within-
It was the loveliest picture! -a sweet child
Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life,
In pauses, from the fountain, the white round
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark,
Concealing, but still showing, the fair reali
Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,
Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh :-
And such alone are beautiful.
Its eye,

--

A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,
Looked archly on its world, the little imp,
As if it knew even then that such a wreath
Were not for all; and with its playful hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,
And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears
Of the sweet mother fell upon its check, -
Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy;
And the true heart of that young mother then
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

FORTUNE.

FROM "FANNY."

BUT Fortune, like some others of her sex,
Delights in tantalizing and tormenting.
One day we feed upon their smiles, - the next
Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting.

Eve never walked in Paradise more pure

Than on that morn when Satan played the devil With her and all her race. A lovesick wooer

Ne'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil,
Than Cleopatra was to Antony
The day she left him on the Ionian sea.

The serpent loveliest in his coiled ring,
With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies
The tints of the rainbow bears upon his sting
The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies
Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath
Are tropic winds before the voice of death

Is heard upon the waters, summoning

The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years To do its task of woe. The clouds that fling

The lightning brighten ere the bolt appears ;

THE GIFTS OF GOD.

WHEN God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by,
Let us (said he) pour on him all we can :
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said he) Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness : Let him be rich and weary, that, at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.

GEORGE HERBERT

ENIGMA.*

THE LETTER "H."

'T WAS whispered in heaven, and muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; "T was seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder;

"T will be found in the spheres, when riven

asunder;

'T was given to man with his earliest breath, Assists at his birth, and attends him in death; Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,

Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, And though unassuming, with monarchs is crowned.

In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir.
Without it the soldier and sailor may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be
found,

Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
It softens the heart; and, though deaf to the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,
O, breathe on it softly; it dies in an hour.

CATHARINE FANSHAWE.

FATHER LAND AND MOTHER TONGUE.
OUR Father Land! and wouldst thou know
Why we should call it Father Land?
It is that Adam here below

Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he, our father made of earth,

Hath peopled earth on every hand; And we, in memory of his birth,

Do call our country Father Land.

At first, in Eden's bowers, they say,
No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day,

And maybe 't was for want of thought: But Nature, with resistless laws,

Made Adam soon surpass the birds; She gave him lovely Eve because

If he'd a wife they must have words.

And so the native land, I hold,

By male descent is proudly mine; The language, as the tale hath told, Was given in the female line.

Sometimes attributed to Byron.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ;
Long had I watched the glory moving on

O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul !
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.

JOHN WILSON.

INSIGNIFICANT EXISTENCE.

THERE are a number of us creep
Into this world, to eat and sleep;
And know no reason why we're born,
But only to consume the corn,
Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish,
And leave behind an empty dish.
The crows and ravens do the same,
Unlucky birds of hateful name;
Ravens or crows might fill their place,
And swallow corn and carcasses,
Then if their tombstone, when they die,
Be n't taught to flatter and to lie,
There's nothing better will be said
Than that "they 've eat up all their bread,
Drunk up their drink, and gone to bed."

And One is like the ocean, deep and wide,
Wherein all waters fall;

That girdles the broad earth, and draws the tide,
Feeding and bearing all ;

That broods the mists, that sends the clouds abroad,

That takes, again to give ;

Even the great and loving heart of God,
Whereby all love doth live.

CAROLINE SPENCER.

FREEDOM IN DRESS.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed, -
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

BEN JONSON.

A SWEET DISORDER IN THE DRESS.
A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Inthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoestring, in whose tic
I see a wild civility,

Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

ROBERT HERRICK

CONTRADICTION.

FROM "CONVERSATION."

YE powers who rule the tongue, if such there

are,

And make colloquial happiness your care,
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,
A duel in the form of a debate.
The clash of arguments and jar of words,
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords,