DICKENS IN CAMP. Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell." Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,-for the reader But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp with "Nell" on English meadows Wandered, and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken As by some spell divine Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire; Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory And on that grave where English oak and holly Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,— This spray of Western pine! July, 1870. BRET HARTE. COWPER'S GRAVE. It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decay ing; It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their pray ing: Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish : Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing! O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging! O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling! And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory, And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted, He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him, Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him, But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him; And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences: The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number, And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses: The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing, Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of pro viding, He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy desolated, -Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God created. Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses, That turns his fevered eyes around-'My mother! where's my mother?'— As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other! The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him, Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him! Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in death to save him. Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, But felt those eyes alone, and knew,- My Saviour! not deserted!' Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested, Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted? What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted? Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father: Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry His universe hath shaken It went up single, echoless, 'My God, I am forsaken!' It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation, That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation ! That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition, And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. [By kind permission of Robert Browning, Esq.] LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. What did you say, too late. dear? Breakfast? Somehow I've slept You are very kind, dear Effie, go tell them not to wait. Put up the old pipe, deary; I couldn't smoke to-day. I'm sort of dazed and frightened, and don't know what to say. |