THE DIAMOND. I ONLY polished am in mine own dust Naught else against my hardness will prevail: And thou, O man, in thine own sufferings must Be polished: every meaner art will fail. FALLING STARS. ANGELS are we, that, once from heaven exiled, Would climb its crystal battlements again; But have their keen-eyed watchers not beguiled, Hurled by their glittering lances back amain. HARMOSAN. Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy, Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst; In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore, Well might then have paused the bravest for around him angry foes With a hedge of naked weapons did that lonely man enclose. "But what fear'st thou ?" cried the caliph; "is it, friend, a secret blow? Fear it not!- our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know. "Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water- this reprieve is thine-no more!" Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, "Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred- "Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: Drink, I said before, and perish—now I bid thee drink and live!” JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. THE NAME IN THE BARK. THE self of so long ago, And the self I struggle to know, I sometimes think we are two,- or are we shadows of one? Returns in the sweet summer calm To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun. Once more in the dewy morn I came through the whispering corn; Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were blown; Leaned over the flattering glass, And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone. To the gray old birch I came, Where I whittled my school-boy name: The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail, The alders noisily sung, And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail. I came, remembering well How my little shadow fell, As I painfully reached and wrote to leave to the future a sign: A half-healed, curious wound. An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine! Then the wise old boughs overhead Took counsel together, and said, And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy passed,"He is busily carving a name In the tough old wrinkles of fame; But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at last!" Sadly I pondered awhile, Then I lifted my soul with a smile, And I said "Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we, As we toil at the letters of life, Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of the tree." And now by the rivulet's brink I leisurely saunter, and think How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run, If then the real I am Descend from the heavenly calm, To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the sun. |