Who fail'd under the heat of this Not with lost toil thou laborest life's day, through the night! indeed thy home. Support the fervors of the heavenly Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st morn? AUSTERITY OF POETRY. THAT Son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow Youth like a star; and what to youth belong Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo, Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off-and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within. [From Memorial Verses.] He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear; And struck his finger on the place, And said: Thou ailest here, and From the intense, clear, star-sown here! vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the "And with joy the stars perform In their own tasks all their powers their shining, And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul. "Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, pouring, These attain the mighty life you see." O air-born voice! long since, severely A cry like thine in mine own heart "Resolve to be thyself; and know, Who finds himself, loses his misery!" PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE. WE live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath; We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright the blazing fagot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light Plies her task with busy sleight; Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Thus circled round with merry faces. Backward coil'd, and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, Erected stiff, and gait awry, Like madam in her tantrums high: Though ne'er a madam of them all, Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.... But not alone by cottage fire The widest range of human lore, Он, welcome bat and owlet gray, Thus winging low your airy way! And welcome moth and drowsy fly That to mine ear comes humming by! And welcome shadows dim and deep, And stars that through the pale sky peep; Oh welcome all! to me ye say Upon the soft wind floats her hair, Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch | And may be so to-morrow.) |