The human soul is like a barge Afloat on Slumber's mystic ocean, The human soul is like the tongue HARRIS. The Phantom Ship. THE breeze had sunk to rest, the noonday-sun was high, The mid-day watch was set, beneath the blaze of light, When there came a cry from the tall mast-head, "A sail! a sail, in sight!" And o'er the fair horizon, a snowy speck appear'd, And every eye was strain'd to watch the vessel as she near'd. There was no breath of air, yet she bounded on her way, And the dancing waves around her prow were flashing into spray. She answer'd not their hail, alongside as she pass'd: There were none who trod her spacious deck; not a seaman on the mast; No hand to guide her helm; yet on she held her course, She seem'd a thing of another world, the world where dwell the dead. She pass'd away from sight, the deadly calm was o'er, And the spell-bound ship pursued her course before the breeze once more; And clouds across the sky obscured the noonday sun, And the winds arose at the tempest's call before the day was done. Midnight and still the storm raged wrathfully and loud, And deep in the trough of the heaving sea, labour'd that vessel proud; There was darkness all around, save where lightning flashes keen Play'd on the crests of the broken waves, and lit the depths between. Around her and below, the waste of waters roar'd, And answer'd the crash of the falling masts as they cast them overboard, At every billow's shock, her quivering timbers strain ; And as she rose on a crested wave, that strange ship pass'd again. And o'er that stormy sea she flew before the gale, Yet she had not struck her lightest spar, nor furl'd her loftiest sail. Another blinding flash, and nearer yet she seem'd, And a pale blue light along her sails and o'er her rigging gleam'd. But it show'd no seaman's form, no hand her course to guide; The angry tempest ceased, the winds were hush'd to sleep, And many a hardy seaman, who fears nor storm nor fight, For it augurs death and danger: it bodes a watery grave, wave. A. G. GREENE. Song of a Persian Maid. THERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, That bower and its music, I never forget, And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer! MOORE. The Cottage. An Admonition. YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, As many do, repining while they look; Intruders who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf with harsh impiety: -Think what the home would be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants !-Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day WORDSWORTH. Ariel's Song.-A Sea Dirge. FULL fathom five thy father lies; Hark! now I hear them-ding-dong bell. SHAKESPEARE. Thought. THOUGHT shines from God as shines the morn; The hieroglyph of Wisdom's Lord; To shape the Epic of the skies; Heaven is the grand full-spoken thought Finis. THE book is completed, And closed like the day; And the hand that has written it Lays it away. Dim grow its fancies; Song sinks into silence, The windows are darken'd, The hearthstone is cold. Darker and darker The black shadows fall; Sleep and oblivion Reign over all. HARRIS. LONGFELLOW. M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON-WORKS, NEWTON. She died in Beauty... ANSTER, Translated from Goethe The Setting Sun... BAILLIE, JOANNA-Devotion ... 178 181 211 ... 229 318 325 Sacredness of Sorrow BEATTIE Melodies of Morning BLACKWOOD, MRS.-Lament of the Irish Emigrant.. BLOOMFIELD-The Soldier's Return BROWNING, E. B.-An English Landscape Human Life's Mystery BROWNING, ROBERT Home Thoughts from Abroad The Sleep Song on Spring Morn Home Thoughts from the Sea How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 866 BURNS TO a Daisy, on turning one up with the Plough On hearing a Thrush sing in a Winter Morning Walk on his Birthday 10 24 54 213 161 1 |