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, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir,

And makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;

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,

wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its 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.

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,

And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long?"

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, I wander through the world; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, And straight again is furled. Yet oft I dream, that once a wife

Close in my heart was locked,
And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,-away!
Too long did it remain !
So long, that both by night and day
It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;

To a grave so cold and deep The mother beautiful was brought; Then dropt the child asleep.

Put now the dream is wholly o'er,

I bathe mine eyes and see; [more, And wander thro' the world once A youth so light and free.

22222222222

BLIND BARTIMEUS.

BLIND Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits ;
He hears the crowd;-he hears
breath

Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!"
And calls, in tones of agony,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με !

The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!'

Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ σε !

This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Is filled with waters, that upstart
When the deep fountains of the heart,
By strong convulsions rent apart,
Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel is it wreathed and
crowned,
[browned
Whose seed and foliage sun-im-
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours
a Was gifted with the wondrous powers,
Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength and fearless
mood;

And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food;
And he who battled and subdued,
A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life's goblet freely press
The leaves that give it bitterness,

"

For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give! And he who has not learnt to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe With which its brim may overflow,

He has not learned to live.

The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight,

The blackness of that noonday night,
He asked but the return of sight,
To see his foeman's face.

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
Be, too, for light,--for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight of care,
That crushes into dumb despair

One half the human race.
O suffering, sad humanity!
O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried!

I pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf ! The Battle of our Life is brief, [lief,— The alarm, the struggle,-the reThen sleep we side by side.

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse !