And deeper than the sound of seas, more soft than falling flake, Amidst the hush of wing and song the voice Eternal spake : "Welcome, my angels! ye have brought a holier joy to heaven; Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the song of sin forgiven!" William Wouter ORGIA. . (A SONG OF RUIN.) Who cares for nothing alone is free. Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me! With a careless heart and a merry eye, He will laugh at the world as the world goes by. He laughs at power and wealth and fame; He laughs at virtue, he laughs at shame; He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear, He laughs at the future, cold and dim,— O that is the comrade fit for me: He cares for nothing, his soul is free, Free as the soul of the fragrant wine: For I heed not custom, creed, nor law; I care for nothing that ever I saw. In every city my cups I quaff, And over my liquor I riot and laugh. I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave; I laugh at the church and I laugh at the grave. I laugh at joy, and well I know That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe. I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer, For I know that Death is a guest divine, And he cares for nothing! A king is he! With you I will drink to the solemn Past, Though the cup that I drain should be my last. I will drink to the phantoms of love and truth; To ruined manhood and wasted youth. I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe, In the diamond morning of Long Ago; To a heavenly face, in sweet repose; To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose; To the splendor, caught from orient skies, Her large eyes wild with the fire of the south, I will drink to the thought of a better time; I will drink to the shadow of coming doom; I will drink to my soul in its terrible mood, And, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin, Who has conquered that fortress and reigns within. My sight is fading,-it dies away,— I cannot tell,—is it night or day? My heart is burnt and blackened with pain, I cannot see you. The end is nigh, Through awful chasms I plunge and fall! THE CHIEFTAIN. READ AT THE ATLANTIC FESTIVAL IN COMMEMORATION OF THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, AT THE HOTEL BRUNSWICK, BOSTON, DEC. 3D, 1879. If that glad song had ebbed away, Which, rippling on through smiles and tears, If that sweet voice were hushed to-day, 1 At first we thought him but a jest, When voices fade the roses blow; Like Arthur's sword beneath the lake, Long since has flashed its fiery glow O'er all we know. That song has poured its sacred light That song has flecked with rosy gold Relumed the storied days of old; Presaged the glorious life to be; And many a sorrowing heart consoled, In grief untold. When, shattered on the loftiest steep |