NO VINU HYMN TO THE NIGHT.—A PSALM OF LIFE. Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, "Athwart the swinging branches cast, Then comes the fearful wintry blast; We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write! HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, From the cool cisterns of the midnight air The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,- O, holy Night! from thee I learn to bear Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.-FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon There is no light in earth or heaven Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above, And earnest thoughts within me rise, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand Within my breast there is no light I give the first watch of the night The star of the unconquered will, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. 13 With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me, With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depressed and lonely, Such as these have lived and died. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Large desires, with most uncertain issues Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, THE BELEAGUERED CITY.-MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 15 Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, And with child-like, credulous affection THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, The mist-like banners clasped the air, But when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarméd air. Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, No other voice nor sound is there, No other challenge breaks the air, And when the solemn and deep church-bell Th- midnight phantoms feel the spell, |