Above the stir and tumult of the street:

"He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree!" And through the chant a second melody Rose like the throbbing of a single string: "I am an angel, and thou art the king!"

King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
But all apparelled as in days of old,
With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;
And when his courtiers came they found him
there

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Life.

LIKE to the falling of the star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood -
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past—and man forgot!

Man's Mortality.

HENRY KING.

LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had E'en such is man whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth,

The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes- and man he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that 's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death.The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew's ascended, The hour is short, the span is long, The swan 's near death-man's life is done!

Like to a bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of a stream; E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot, The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot, The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides - man's life is done!

Like to a blaze of fond delight, Or like a morning clear and bright, Or like a frost, or like a shower, Or like the pride of Babel's tower, Or like the hour that guides the time, Or like to Beauty in her prime; E'en such is man, whose glory lends That life a blaze or two, and ends. The morn's o'ercast, joy turned to pain, The frost is thawed, dried up the rain, The tower falls, the hour is run, The beauty lost-man's life is done!

Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water-flow,
Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,

Or like the spider's tender web,

Or like a race, or like a goal,

Or like the dealing of a dole;

E'en such is man, whose brittle state Is always subject unto Fate. The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent, The time's no time, the web soon rent, The race soon run, the goal soon won, The dole soon dealt man's life is done!

Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a short song,
Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;

E'en such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.
The lightning's past, the post must go,
The song is short, the journey's so,
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves and so must all!

SIMON WASTEL.

And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

773

The Burial of the Poct.

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

IN the old churchyard of his native town,
And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall,
We laid him in the sleep that comes to all,
And left him to his rest and his renown.
The snow was falling as if heaven dropped down
White flowers of paradise to strew his pall:-
The dead around him seemed to wake, and call
His name, as worthy of so white a crown.
And now the moon is shining on the scene,
And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er
With shadows cruciform of leafless trees,
As once the winding-sheet of Saladin
With chapters of the Koran; but, ah! more
Mysterious and triumphant signs are these.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Thou wert lovely on thy Bier.

THEY say that thou wert lovely on thy bier,
More lovely than in life; that when the thrall
Of earth was tossed, it seemed as though a pall
Of years were lifted, and thou didst appear
Such as of old amidst thy home's calm sphere
Thou sat'st, a kindly presence felt by all
In joy or grief, from morn to evening fall,
The peaceful genius of that mansion dear.
Was it the craft of all-persuading love
That wrought this marvel? or is death indeed
A mighty matter, gifted from above
With alchemy benign, to wounded hearts
Ministering thus, by quaint and subtle arts,
Strange comfort, whereon after-thought may feed.
WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER.

Sonnet.

Of mortal glory, O soon darkened ray!

O winged joys of man, more swift than wind!

O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!

O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind!
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind,