"Under the Cloud and Through the Sea,"

Unrealized Ideal, The.

Unsung,

Vagabonds, The,

When I Awake I am Still with Thee, .

603

Im Alden

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

The magic mirror makes not nor unmakes; Charms none to sleep, nor any from it wakes— It only giveth back the thing it takes.

"Tis but the heart's own cheer that makes it glad, And one's own bitterness will drive him mad; It needeth not that other help be had.

Dame Fortune maketh none to rise or fall;

To him that hath not doth no portion call;
To him that hath is freely given all.

They see themselves who look in Fortune's face;
Unto the sad is sadness Heaven's grace;
And to the souls that love is love's embrace.

MB. Aldrich.

IDENTITY.

Somewhere, in desolate, wind-swept space,—
In Twilight-land, in No-man's-land,—
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.

"And who are you?" cried one, agape, Shuddering in the gloaming light.

"I do not know," said the second Shape, "I only died last night!"

SLEEP.

When to soft sleep we give ourselves away,
And in a dream as in a fairy bark

Drift on and on through the enchanted dark
To rosy daybreak,-little thought we pay

To that sweet bitter world we know by day.
We are clean quit of it, as is a lark

So high in heaven no human eye may mark The sharp swift pinion cleaving through the gray.

Till we awake, ill fate can do no ill,

The resting heart shall not take up again

The heavy load that yet must make it bleed : For this brief space, the loud world's voice is still, No faintest echo of it brings us pain.

How will it be when we shall sleep indeed?

ON LYNN TERRACE.

(1879.)

All day to watch the blue wave curl and break,
All night to hear it plunging on the shore,-
In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,
I cannot ask for more.

Behind me lie the idle life and vain,

The task unfinished, and the weary hours; That long wave bears me softly back to Spain And the Alhambra's towers!

Once more I halt in Andalusian pass,

To list the mule-bells jingling on the height; Below, against the dull esparto grass,

The almonds glimmer white.

Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,
Invite my fancy, and I wander through
The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns
The world's first sailors knew.

Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze
Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;
Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,
Venice salutes my eyes.