A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. "Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!" When thou didst walk in wrath Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and fleet, Up the mountain pathway flew. 273 Ox the green little isle of Inchkenneth, Ah, no! It is only the Rambler, The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, His form is the form of a giant, But his face wears an aspect of pain; THE THREE KINGS. THREE Kings came riding from far away, And they travelled by night and they slept by For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well. "Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you tell us the news; And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king." So they rode away; and the star stood still, Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, The city of David where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. A WRAITH IN THE MIST. SIR, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live The little child in the manger lay, here." BOSWELL'S Johnson. The child, that would be king one day And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, NATURE. As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Of his soldiery in the street; He is awake! the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, He has heard in the grave the cries From the Volga and the Don He looks from the mountain-chain And the words break from his lips: "I am the builder of ships, And my ships shall sail these seas "The Bosphorus shall be free; "And the Christian shall no more A BOOK OF SONNETS. - PART II. Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know. 275 DELIA. SWEET as the tender fragrance that survives, Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN. HERE lies the gentle humorist, who died In the bright Indian Summer of his fame! Here in the autumn of his days he came, AMONG the many lives that I have known, None I remember more serene and sweet, More rounded in itself and more complete, Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone. These pines, that murmur in low monotone, These walks frequented by scholastic feet, Were all his world; but in this calm retreat For him the Teacher's chair became a throne. With fond affection memory loves to dwell On the old days, when his example made A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen; And now, amid the groves he loved so well That naught could lure him from their grateful shade, He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen! TO THE RIVER RHONE. THOU Royal River, born of sun and shower A king among the rivers! On thy way Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay, THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS. TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THREE Silences there are: the first of speech, Made up the perfect Silence, that he ought The life to come, and in whose thought and word The spiritual world preponderates, Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, And speakest only when thy soul is stirred! THE TWO RIVERS. SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round; To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower The painted ship above it, homeward bound, Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground; Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night! The watershed of Time, from which the streams Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light, One to the land of darkness and of dreams! II. O River of Yesterday, with current swift sight, I do not care to follow in thy flight The faded leaves that on thy bosom drift! O River of To-morrow, I uplift Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, III. Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending, I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay, IV. And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing Between thy narrow adamantine walls, showing; |
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