And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each
well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that

were

I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

SANTA FILOMENA.*
WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,

And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.

At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymphlike figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels, bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession," MRS. JAMESON, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298.

Honour to those whose words or deed,
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow

Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,

The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,— The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain,

The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering
gloom,

And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,

The light shone and was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena bore.

SANDALPHON.

HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told

Of the limitless realms of the air,Have you read it,-the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits,

With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire

With the song's irresistible stress:
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.
But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless

To sounds that ascend from below;From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses,

And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his
hands,

Into garlands of purple and red;
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know,
A fable, a phantom, a show,

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediæval tradition, The beautiful strange superstition,

But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white,

All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon, the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain.

DAYBREAK.

A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for

me.

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone."

CATAWBA WINE. THIS Song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns,

When the rain begins

To darken the drear Novembers.
It is not a song

Of the Scuppernong,
From warm Carolinian valleys,
Nor the Isabel

And the Muscadel
That bask in our garden alleys.
Nor the red Mustang,
Whose clusters hang
O'er the waves of the Colorado,
And the fiery flood

Of whose purple blood
Has a dash of Spanish bravado.

For richest and best

Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume

Fills all the room
With a benison on the giver.

And as hollow trees
Are the haunts of bees,

For ever going and coming;
So this crystal hive

Is all alive

With a swarming and buzzing and humming.

Very good in its way

Is the Verzenay,

Or the Sillery soft and creamy;
But Catawba wine

Has a taste more divine,

More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.
There grows no vine
By the haunted Rhine,

By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on island or cape,
That bears such a grape

As grows by the Beautiful River.
Drugged is their juice
For foreign use,

When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,
To rack our brains

With the fever-pains

That have driven the Old World frantic.
To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,

And after them tumble the mixer;
For a poison malign
Is such Borgia wine,

Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring

Is the wine I sing,

And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine

Has need of no sign,

No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine,
This greeting of mine,

The winds and the birds shall deliver
To the Queen of the West,
In her garlands dressed,

On the banks of the Beautiful River.

Ah! how cold are their caresses!

Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms!

O my songs! whose winsome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures
Fade and perish with the capture?
Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden;
Voices single and in chorus,
Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.
Disenchantment! Disillusion !
Must each noble aspiration
Come at last to this conclusion,
Jarring discord, wild confusion,
Lassitude, renunciation !

Not with steeper fall nor faster,

From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster

Icarus fell with shattered pinions! Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora,

If to win thee is to hate thee?

No, not hate thee! for this feeling
Of unrest and long resistance
Is but passionate appealing,
A prophetic whisper stealing

O'er the chords of our existence.
Him whom thou dost once enamour,
Thou, beloved, never leavest;
In life's discord, strife, and clamour,
Still he feels thy spell of glamour;

Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted,

Struggling souls by thee are strengthened,

Clouds of fear asunder rifted,

Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted

Lives, like days in summer, lengthened. Therefore art thou ever dearer,

O my Sibyl! my deceiver!

For thou makest each mystery clearer.

And the unattained seems nearer When thou fillest my heart with fever!

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces!

Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces; Let us turn and wander thither.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF

AGASSIZ.

MAY 28, 1857

It was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee.' "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod;

And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God.'
And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,
She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.
So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,
Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old,

And the rush of mountain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;
And the mother at home says,
"Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn;
It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return!"

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy
sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this
She woke Endymion with a kiss,

When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice nor sound betrays
Its deep impassioned gaze.
It comes, the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,-
In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds, -as if with unseen wings
An angel touched its quivering strings:
And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stayed so long?"

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay pájaros en los nidos antaño.Spanish Proverb.

THE sun is bright, the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear

The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new; the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight? And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May!