LONGFELLOW

THE winds have talked with him confidingly;

The trees have whispered to him; and the night

Hath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody; The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,

In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight, Her legends fair, - her darkest mystery. His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;

Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings

Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.

Nor shall he cease to sing — in every lay Of Nature's voice he sings and will alway.

THE GARDEN WHERE THERE
IS NO WINTER

"Se Dio ti lasci, lettor, prender frutto
Di tua lezione."

BEHOLD the portal: open wide it stands,
And the long reaches shine and still allure

LOVE'S PRAYER

DEAR Lord! kind Lord!
Gracious Lord! I pray
Thou wilt look on all I love,
Tenderly to-day!

Weed their hearts of weariness;
Scatter every care,
Down a wake of angel wings
Winnowing the air.

Bring unto the sorrowing

All release from pain;
Let the lips of laughter
Overflow again;
And with all the needy
O divide, I pray,

This vast treasure of content
That is mine to-day!

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To seek their nobler depths serene, secure, And watch the waters kiss the yellow sands

That gentle winds stir with their sweet commands;

These stately growths from age to age endure,

MISS CONWAY 567

SONG, YOUTH, AND SORROW

By famine thinned, by savage hordes defied. In a deep vale, beneath the setting

sun,

They saw at last a swift black river run, While shouting spearmen thronged the farther side.

Then eagerly, with startled, joyous eyes, Toward the desponding chief a soldier flew:

"I was a slave in Athens, never knew My native country; but I understand The meaning of yon wild barbarian cries, And I believe this is my fatherland!"

This glimpse have we, no more. Did parents fond,

Brothers, or kinsmen, hail his late return?

Or did he, doubly exiled, only yearn To greet the Euxine's waves at Trebizond, The blue Egean, and Pallas' towers beyond?

Mute is the record. We shall never

learn.

But as once more the well-worn page I turn,

Forever by reluctant schoolboys conned,

A parable to me the tale appears,

Of blacker waters in a drearier vale.

Ah me! When on that brink we exiles stand,

As earthly lights and mortal accents fail, Shall voices long forgotten reach our ears, To tell us we have found our fatherland?