In elvish speech the Dreamer told his tale
Of marvelous oceans swept by fateful wings.-
The Seër strayed not from earth's human pale
But the mysterious face of common things

He mirrored as the moon in Rydal Mere

Is mirrored, when the breathless night hangs blue: Strangely remote she seems and wondrous near, And by some nameless difference born anew.

V

Peace peace and rest! Ah, how the lyre is loth,
Or powerless now, to give what all men seek!
Either it deadens with ignoble sloth

Or deafens with shrill tumult, loudly weak.

Where is the singer whose large notes and clear
Can heal, and arm, and plenish, and sustain?
Lo, one with empty music floods the ear,

And one, the heart refreshing, tires the brain.

And idly tuneful, the loquacious throng
Flutter and twitter, prodigal of time,
And little masters make a toy of song,
Till grave men weary of the sound of rhyme.

And some go pranked in faded antique dress,
Abhorring to be hale and glad and free;
And some parade a conscious naturalness,
The scholar's not the child's simplicity.

Enough; the wisest who from words forbear
The gentle river rails not as it glides;
And suave and charitable, the winsome air
Chides not at all, or only him who chides.

VI

Nature! we storm thine ear with choric notes.

Thou answerest through the calm great nights and days, "Laud me who will: not tuneless are your throats; Yet if ye paused I should not miss the praise."

1 bides he; but he sleeps;

ven at thy word;

amers, dream he somewhere keeps

thy voice still heard,—

re, about him blown,

it his silence now;
per, yet so like his own

ne sang, we deemed 'twas thou!

VII

d Silver Howe the sheen

y is less and less.

summits, here unseen, >out their nakedness.

The half-heard bleat of sheep comes from the hill. Faint sounds of childish play are in the air. The river murmurs past. All else is still.

The very graves seem stiller than they were.

Afar though nation be on nation hurled,

And life with toil and ancient pain depressed, Here one may scarce believe the whole wide world Is not at peace, and all man's heart at rest.

Rest! 'twas the gift he gave, and peace! the shade
He spread, for spirits fevered with the sun.
To him his bounties are come back-here laid
In rest, in peace, his labor nobly done.
William Watson (1858-

M THE GOLDEN

M THE GOLDEN”*

the Golden!

or one gleam lory folden

-ce and in dream!

ts, like palms in exile,

to look and pray

ose of thy dear country

so far away.

he Golden!

s each flower that blows,

bird a-singing

some secret knows;

what the flowers

or singers see;

se summer raptures Ophecies of thee.

the Golden!

nset's in the west, ne gate of glory, y of the blest! ght's starry torches intermediate gloom g with our welcome eternal home!

the Golden!

-ftily they sing,

and sorrow olden

triumphing;

1 of this poem see page 3574.