Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-
like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,

The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of

man,

That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,

In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep church. bell

Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY ING YEAR.

YES, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared ! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sore'y, sorely!

When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering
breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it, till our homes are free!
Guard it! God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him he our love hath shared!
Spare him! as thou wouldst be
spared!

Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of
day,

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,

The woods were bending with a silent reach.

Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;

moves

In the green valley, where the silver

brook,

From its full laver, pours the white cascade;

And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.

And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

land fills,

Was ringing to the merry shout,
That faint and far the glen sent out,
Where, answering to the sudden shot,
thin smoke,

through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset

With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, Af thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep

thy heart from fainting and thy soul

from sleep,

Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle southwind blows;

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,

The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,

The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.

With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast ushering star of morning

comes

O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,

In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,