Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. Nor deem the irrevocable Past, SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said, If, rising on its wrecks, at last That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame! All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. To something nobler we attain. A MIST was driving down the British For in the night, unseen, a single warChannel, The day was just begun, rior, In sombre harness mailed, And through the window-panes, on floor Dreaded of man, and surnamed the De and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. stroyer, The rampart wall had scaled. It glanced on flowing flag and rippling He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, pennon, And the white sails of ships; The dark and silent room, And, from the frowning rampart, the And as he entered, darker grew, and black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon, through the night, HAUNTED HOUSES. ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, With feet that make no sound upon Across whose trembling planks our fan the floors. cies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night, So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. IN the village churchyard she lies, No more she breathes, nor feels, no At her feet and at her head But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, And foolish pomp of this world of Or was it Christian charity, The richest and rarest of all dowers! Who shall tell us? No one speaks; Either of anger or of pride, By those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter? And do you think to look On the terrible pages of that Book To find her failings, faults, and errors? Ah, you will then have other cares, In your own shortcomings and despairs, In your own secret sins and terrors ! |