A moral motive in the golden books
Of wisdom by the sacred ancestors,

He played upon the Kin - the curious
Ïute

Invented by Fou-Hi in days of old; Fou-Hi of the bull's head and dragon's form,

The Lord of Learning who upraised mankind

From being silent brutes to singing men.

In vain Confucius played upon the lute; He found that music would not be to him

What it had been of old, - a pastime gay:

For he had borne through three long years of grief

Stupendous knowledge, and his mighty soul,

Grasping the lines which link all earthly lore,

Had been by suffering raised to greater

Now I will travel to the land of Kin, And know this sage of music, great

Siang,

And learn the secret lore which hides within

All sweet well-ordered sounds." went his way,

He

Nor rested till he stood before the man.
Thus spoke Siang unto Confucius:
"Of all the arts, great Music is the art
To raise the soul above all earthly storms;
For in it lies that purest harmony
Which lifts us over self and up to
God.

Thou who hast studied deeply the Koua — The eight great symbols of created things

Knowest the sacred power of the line Which when unbroken flies to all the worlds

As light unending, —but in broken forms Falls short as sky and earth, clouds, winds, and fire,

The deep blue ocean and the mountain high,

And the red lightning hissing in the wave. The mighty law which formed what thou canst see,

As clearly lives in all that thou canst hear,

And more than this, in all that thou canst feel.

Here, take thy lute in hand. I teach the air

Made by the sage Wen Wang of ancient days."

he said:

To which the master answered: "It is well.

Take five days more!" And when the time was passed

Unto Siang thus spoke Confucius : "I do begin to see, - yet what I see Is very dim. I am as one who looks And nothing sees except a luminous cloud:

Give me but five more days, and at the end

If I have not attained the great idea
Hidden of old within the melody,
I will leave music as beyond my power."
"Do as thou wilt, O pupil!" cried Siang
In deepest admiration; "never yet
Had I a scholar who was like to thee."

And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : "The mist which shadowed me is blown away,

I am as one who stands upon a cliff
And gazes far and wide upon the world,
For I have mastered every secret thought,
Yea, every shadow of a feeling dim
Which flitted through the spirit of Wen
Wang

When he composed that air. I speak to him,

I hear him clearly answer me again; And more than that, I see his very form: A man of middle stature, with a hue Half blended with the dark and with the fair;

His features long, and large sweet eyes which beam

With great benevolence, -a noble face! His voice is deep and full, and all his air Inspires a sense of virtue and of love. I know that I behold the very man, The sage of ancient days, Wen Wang the just.'

Then good Siang lay down upon the dust, And said: "Thou art my master. Even thus

The ancient legend, known to none but

me,

Describes our first great sire. And thou hast seen

Though I have played the sacred song for years,

Striving with all my soul to penetrate Its mystery unto the master's form, Whilst thou hast reached it at a single bound:

Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee tune."

MINE OWN.

AND O, the longing, burning eyes!
And O, the gleaming hair

Which waves around me, night and day,
O'er chamber, hall, and stair!

And O, the step, half dreamt, half heard!
And memories of merriment
And O, the laughter low!
Which faded long ago!

O, art thou Sylph,

-or truly Self, -
Or either at thy choice?
O, speak in breeze or beating heart,
But let me hear thy voice!

"O, some do call me Laughter, love;
And some do call me Sin":-
"And they may call thee what they will,
So I thy love may win.

"And some do call me Wantonness, And some do call me Play": "O, they might call thee what they would If thou wert mine alway!"

"And some do call me Sorrow, love,

And some do call me Tears, And some there be who name me Hope, And some that name me Fears.

"And some do call me Gentle Heart, And some Forgetfulness"::"And if thou com'st as one or all,

Thou comest but to bless!"

"And some do call me Life, sweetheart,
And some do call me Death;
And he to whom the two are one
Has won my heart and faith."

She twined her white arms round his neck:

The tears fell down like rain. "And if I live or if I die,

We'll never part again."

Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven-descended, soon to heaven withdrawn,

Ever dwells the lesser in the greater;

In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter

Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL

UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made,

Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,

chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,

Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.

The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird,

and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moor

land, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed

men who gathered around the grave, Where lay the mate who had fought with

them the battle of wind and wave.

How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar, When the sky was black to the eastward

and the breakers white on the Scar! How his keen eye caught the squall ahead,

how his strong hand furled the sail, As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale!

How cheery he kept all the long dark night; and never a parson spoke Good words, like those he said to us, when at last the morning broke!

So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood, While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood;

Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red,

The elder-flower a fairer gray.

And there was silence on the land,
Save when, from out the city's fold,
Stricken by Time's remorseless wand,
A bell across the morning tolled.

The beeches sighed through all their boughs;

The gusty pennons of the pine
Swayed in a melancholy drowse,
But with a motion sternly fine.

One gable, full against the sun,
Flooded the garden-space beneath
With spices, sweet as cinnamon,

From all its honeysuckled breath.

Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke,

The windmill shook its slanted arms,
The sun was up, the country woke!
And voices sounded mid the trees

Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, From fields which promised tented sheaves;

Till the day waxed into excess,

And on the misty, rounding gray,-
One vast, fantastic wilderness,
The glowing roofs of London lay.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS.

THE sea is calling, calling.
Wife, is there a log to spare?
Fling it down on the hearth and call
them in,

The boys and girls with their merry din,
I am loth to leave you all just yet,
In the light and the noise I might forget,
The voice in the evening air.

The sea is calling, calling,

Along the hollow shore.

I know each nook in the rocky strand,

And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling,

And the winding caves where the echoes ring.

I shall wake them nevermore.
How it keeps calling, calling,
It is never a night to sail.

I saw the "sea-dog" over the height,
As I strained through the haze my fail-
ing sight,

And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh,

As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by,
In the moan of the rising gale.

Yet it is calling, calling.
It is hard on a soul, I say,

To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark,

Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark;

While the foam flies thick on the bitter