Then, like a kraken huge and black,

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath

For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head.
Lord, how beautiful was thy day!

Every waft of the air

Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas !
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream.
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,

Shall be one again,

And without a seam!

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.

LABOUR with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,
Like a mendicant it waits;

Waits, and will not go away;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid.
By the cares of yesterday

Each to-day is heavier made;

Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear; Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere.

And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,

On their shoulders held the sky.

SNOW-FLAKES.

OUT of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare,

Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

Suddenly shape, in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals

The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

FROM "FLOWER DE LUCE."

BEAUTIFUL LILY.

BEAUTIFUL lily, dwelling by still rivers,
Or solitary mere,-

Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers
Its waters to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry
Of spindle and of loom,-

And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry
And rushing of the flume.

Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance,
Thou dost not toil nor spin,-

But makest glad and radiant with thy presence
The meadow and the lin.

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner,--
And round thee throng and run

The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,
The outlaws of the sun.

The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,
And tilts against the field,—

And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent With steel-blue mail and shield.

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,

Who, armed with golden rod

And winged with the celestial azure, bearest
The message of some God.

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities
Hauntest the sylvan streams,
Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties
That come to us as dreams.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river
Linger to kiss thy feet;-

O flower of song, bloom on, and make for ever
The world more fair and sweet.

CHRISTMAS BELLS.

I HEARD the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!