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At this all laughed; the Landlord

stirred,

As one awaking from a swound,
And, gazing anxiously around,
Protested that he had not slept,
But only shut his eyes, and kept
His ears attentive to each word.

Then all arose, and said "Good
Night."

Alone remained the drowsy Squire
To rake the embers of the fire,
And quench the waning parlour light;
While from the windows, here and
there,

The scattered lamps a moment gleamed,
And the illumined hostel seemed
The constellation of the Bear,
Downward, athwart the misty air,
Sinking and setting toward the sun.
Far off the village clock struck one.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence :

Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am

Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

ENCELADUS.

UNDER Mount Etna he lies,

It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies

Are hot with his fiery breath.

The crags are piled on his breast,

The earth is heaped on his head;
But the groans of his wild unrest,
Though smothered and half suppressed,
Are heard, and he is not dead.
And the nations far away

Are watching with eager eyes;
They talk together and say,
"To-morrow, perhaps to-day,
Enceladus will arise!"

And the old gods, the austere
Oppressors in their strength,
Stand aghast and white with fear
At the ominous sounds they hear,
And tremble, and mutter,
length !"

Ah me! for the land that is sown
With the harvest of despair!
Where the burning cinders, blown
From the lips of the overthrown
Enceladus, fill the air.

Where ashes are heaped in drifts

"At

Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down. See, see! the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines

Of Alps and of Apennines, "Enceladus, arise!"

THE CUMBERLAND.

AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloopof-war ;

And at times from the fortress across the bay

The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose

A little feather of snow-white smoke,

And we knew that the iron ship of our

foes

Was steadily steering its course
To try the force

Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs,

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,

And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale

Of the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!' And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Blow, winds! and waft through all the

rooms

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?
1860.

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. LABOUR with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,

At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer,

Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid. By the cares of yesterday

Each to-day is heavier made;
Till at length the burden seems
Greater than our strength can bear;
Heavy as the weight of dreams,

Pressing on us everywhere.
And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,

On their shoulders held the sky.

WEARINESS.

O LITTLE feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears,

Must ache and bleed beneath your
load;

I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine, that so long has glowed and burned,

With passions into ashes turned,

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light

Direct from heaven, their source divine;

Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!

FLOWER-DE-LUCE.

BEAUTIFUL lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or solitary mere,

Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers

Its waters to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry

Of spindle and of loom, And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry

And rushing of the flume.

Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance,

Thou dost not toil nor spin, But makest glad and radiant with thy presence

The meadow and the lin.

The wind blows, and uplifts thy droop

ing banner,

And round thee throng and run The rushes, the green yeomen of thy

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities

Hauntest the sylvan streams, Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties

That come to us as dreams.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river

Linger to kiss thy feet!

O flower of song, bloom on, and make for ever

The world more fair and sweet.

PALINGENESIS.

I LAY upon the headland-height, and
listened
To the incessant sobbing of the sea
In caverns under me,
And watched the waves, that tossed
and fled and glistened,
Until the rolling meadows of amethyst
Melted away in mist.

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;

For round about me all the sunny capes

Seemed peopled with the shapes Of those whom I had known in days departed,

Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams

On faces seen in dreams.

A moment only, and the light and glory

Faded away, and the disconsolate shore Stood lonely as before;