rift,

And broken arches of blue sky.

All the bright flowers that fill the land,
Ripple of waves on rock or sand,
The snow on Fusiyama's cone,
The midnight heaven so thickly sown
With constellations of bright stars,
The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make
A whisper by each stream and lake,
The saffron dawn, the sunset red,
Are painted on these lovely jars ;
Again the skylark sings, again
The stork, the heron, and the crane
Float through the azure overhead,
The counterfeit and counterpart
Of Nature reproduced in Art.

Art is the child of Nature; yes,
Her darling child, in whom we trace
The features of the mother's face,
Her aspect and her attitude,
All her majestic loveliness
Chastened and softened and subdued
Into a more attractive grace,
And with a human sense imbued.
He is the greatest artist, then,
Whether of pencil or of pen,

Pursuing his own fantasies,

Can touch the human heart, or please,
Or satisfy our nobler needs,
As he who sets his willing feet
In Nature's footprints, light and fleet,
And follows fearless where she leads.

Thus mused I on that morn in May,
Wrapped in my visions like the Seer,
Whose eyes behold not what is near,
But only what is far away,

When, suddenly sounding peal on peal,
The church-bell from the neighboring

town

Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon.
The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel,
His apron on the grass threw dow
Whistled his quiet little tune,
Not overloud nor overlong,
And ended thus his simple song:

Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, too soon
The noon will be the afternoon,

Too soon to-day be yesterday;
Behind us in our path we cast
The broken potsherds of the past,
And all are ground to dust at last,
And trodden into clay!

THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD.

WARM and still is the summer night,
As here by the river's brink I wander;
White overhead are the stars, and white

Sing him the song of the green morass, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

yonder.

And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;

For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,

The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you:

THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-
THE-FACE.

IN that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone
Roar down their mountain path,
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs

And the menace of their wrath.
"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,
"Revenge upon all the race

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!"
And the mountains dark and high
From their crags re-echoed the cry
Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside

The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing of the stream
And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,

In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare
The White Chief with yellow hai

And his three hundred men
Dashed headlong, sword in hand
But of that gallant band

Not one returned again.

;

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath

And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river's bank, and between
The rocks of the ravine,

They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight,
Uplifted high in air

As a ghastly trophy, bore
The brave heart, that beat no more,

Of the White Chief with yellow hair.

Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song,

With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe, In the Year of a Hundred Years.

TO THE RIVER YVETTE.

O LOVELY river of Yvette !

O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide.

Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre,

See and salute thee on thy way, And, with a blessing and a prayer,

Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget.

The valley of Chevreuse in vain

Would hold thee in its fond embrace; Thou glidest from its arms again

And hurriest on with swifter pace.

Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet Pursuing still thine onward flight, Thou goest as one in haste to meet

Her sole desire, her heart's delight.

O lovely river of Yvette !

O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings.

THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE.

COMBIEN faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur? A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent.

ON St. Bavon's tower, commanding Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was standing, While beneath him on the landing

Stood Duke Alva and his train.

Like a print in books of fables,
Or a model made for show,
With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
Lay the city far below.

Through its squares and streets and alleys
Poured the populace of Ghent;
As a routed army rallies,
Or as rivers run through valleys,
Hurrying to their homes they went.

"Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!"

Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; "Haunt of traitors and deceivers, Stronghold of insurgent weavers,

Let it to the ground be razed!"

On the Emperor's cap the feather
Nods, as laughing he replies:
"How many skins of Spanish leather;
Think you, would, if stitched together,
Make a glove of such a size?"

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET.

OCTOBER, 1746.

MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A FLEET with flags arrayed

Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal: "Steer southwest.' For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumors in the street,
In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South,

Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise ; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied,

And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,
For my soul was all on flame,
And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came ; It came with a mighty power,

Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly

Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord! The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale.