HASSAN TO HIS MARE.

COME, my beauty! come, my desert darling!
On my shoulder lay thy glossy head!
Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty,

Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! And thou know'st my water-skin is free: Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee.

Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses!

Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddleThou art proud he owns thee: so am I. Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses,

Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness When they course with thee the desert-plains!

Let the Sultan bring his famous horses,

Let him bring his golden swords to meBring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem; He would offer them in vain for thee.

We have seen Damascus, O my beauty!

And the splendor of the Pashas there;
What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not
Take them for a handful of thy hair!

Khaled sings the praises of his mistress,
And because I've none he pities me:
What care If he should have a thousand,
Fairer than the morning? I have thee.
He will find his passion growing cooler

Should her glance on other suitors fal! :
Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling,
Fail to answer at thy master's call.
By-and-by some snow-white Nedjid stallion
Shall to thee his spring-time ardor bring;
And a foal, the fairest of the Desert,

To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling.
Then, when Khaled shows to me his children,
I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine;
Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me,
With thy glossy neck laid close to mine.

THE PHANTOM.

AGAIN I sit within the mansion,

In the old, familiar seat;

And shade and sunshine chase each other

O'er the carpet at my feet.

But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upwards
In the summers that are past,

And the willow trails its branches lower
Than when I saw them last.

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly From out the haunted room;

To fill the house, that once was joyful With silence and with gloom

And many kind, remembered faces
Within the doorway come-
Voices, that wake the sweeter music
Of one that now is dumb.

They sing, in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear;
They braid the rose in summer garlandz,
Whose flowers to her were dear.

And still, her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,

Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more.

And all forgetful of my sorrow,
Unmindful of my pain,

I think she has but newly left me,
And soon will come again.

She stays without, perchance, a moment,
To dress her dark-brown hair;

I hear the rustle of her garments-
Her light step on the stair!

O, fluttering heart! control thy tumult,
Lest eyes profane should see
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture
Her coming brings to me!

She tarries long: but lo, a whisper
Beyond the open door

And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor!

Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me,
The vine, whose shadow strays;
And my patient heart must still await her,
Nor chide her long delays.

But my heart grows sick with weary waiting
As many a time before:

Her foot is ever at the threshold,
Yet never passes o'er.

"MOAN YE WILD WINDS."
MOAN, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall, thou drear December rain!
Fill with your gusts the sullen day,
Tear the last clinging leaves away!
Reckless as yonder naked tree,
No blast of yours can trouble me.

Give me your chill and wild embrace,
And pour your baptism on my face;
Sound in mine ears the airy moan
That sweeps in desolate monotone,
Where on the unsheltered bill-top beat
The marches of your homeless feet!

Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!
Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,
If shed for her, whose fading eyes
Will open soon on Paradise:
The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,
Or ere ye cease, if shed for me

RICHARD COE is of a Quaker family, and was born in Philadelphia, on the thirteenth of February, 1821. He was educated for the mercantile business, and has been for many years engaged in trade in his native city. In 1851 he published a volume of "Poems," which attracted favorable attention by their simplicity and grace, as much

as by their fine religious spirit, and in 1853, "The Old Farm Gate," a book of prose and verse, designed for youthful readers; and he writes occa sionally for the Philadelphia literary magazines. His pieces are marked by refinement of feel. ing, and have frequently a quaintness reminding us of some of the older religious poets.

SMILES AND TEARS.

"ART thou happy, little child,

On this clear bright summer's day— In the garden sporting wild,

Art thou happy? tell me, pray."

"If I had that pretty thing,

That has flown to yonder tree,

I would laugh, and dance, and sing--
Oh! how happy I should be!"
Then I caught the butterfly,

Placed it in his hands securely-
Now, methought, his pretty eye
Never more will look demurely.
"Art thou happy, now?" said I;
Tears were sparkling in his eye:
Lo! the butterfly was dead-
In his hands its life had sped!

"Art thou happy, maiden fair,

On this pleasant summer's day, Culling flowerets so rare,

Art thou happy? tell me, pray." "If my Henry were but here,

To enjoy the scene with me→ He whose love is so sincere

Oh! how happy I should be!" Soon I heard her lover's feet,

Sounding on the gravel lightly, To his loving words so sweet,

Tender glances answer brightly! "Art thou happy, now?" I said; Down she hung her lovely head:

Henry leaves for foreign skies". Tears were in the maiden's eyes.

"Art thou happy, mother mild, On this balmy summer's day, Gazing on thy cherub child

Art thou happy? tell me, pray." "If my baby-boy were well,"

Thus the mother spake to me, "Gratitude my heart would swellOh! how happy I should be!" Then the cordial I supplied,

Soon the babe restored completely Cherub-faced and angel-eyed,

On his mother smiled he sweetly.

"Art thou happy, now?" I said,
"Would his father were not dead!"-
Thus she answered me with sighs,
Scalding tear-drops in her eyes.
"Art thou happy, aged man,

On this glorious summer's day,
With a cheek all pale and wan,
Art thou happy? tell me, pray."
"If I were but safe above,"

Spake the old man unto me, "To enjoy my Saviour's loveOh! how happy I should be!" Then the angel Death came down, And he welcomed him with gladness, On his brow so pale and wan,

Not a trace was seen of sadness' "Art thou happy, now ?" I cried; "Yes!" he answered, as he died: Tears of joy were in his eyes, Dew-drops from the upper skies!

HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL.

My heart is full of tenderness and tears,

And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why; With all my grief, content to live for years, Or even this hour to die.

My youth is gone, but that I heed not now; My love is dead, or worse than dead can be: My friends drop off like blossoms from a bough, But nothing troubles me,

Only the golden flush of sunset lies
Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes!
Spirit of Beauty! whatsoe'er thou art,

I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power;
It is thy presence fills this charmed hour.
And fills my charméd heart;

Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now,
That know not what they feel, nor why they bow;
Thou canst not be forgot,

For all men worship thee, and know it not; Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes, [Tew-comers on the earth, and strangers from the skies!

We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands,
The gift and heirloom of a former state,
And lie in infancy at Heaven's gate, [lands!
Transfigured in the light that streams along the
Around our pillows golden ladders rise,

And up and down the skies,
With wingéd sandals shod,

The angels come, and go, the messengers of God!
Nor do they, fading from us, e'er depart,—

[more!

It is the childish heart;
We walk as heretofore,
Adown their shining ranks, but see them never-
Not Heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears,
Groping our way along the downward slope of
years!

From earliest infancy my heart was thine;
With childish feet I trod thy temple aisles;
Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles,
Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine!
By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air,—
I saw thee everywhere!

A voice of greeting from the wind was sent;
The mists enfolded me with soft white arms;
The birds did sing to lap me in content,
The rivers wove their charms,
And every little daisy in the grass
Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass!
Not long can Nature satisfy the mind,

Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame; We feel a growing want we cannot name, And long for something sweet, but undefined; The wants of Beauty other wants create, Which overflow on others soon or late; For all that worship thee must ease the heart, By Love, or Song, or Art: Divinest Melancholy walks with thee,

Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine; And Music leads her sister Poesy,

In exultation shouting songs divine! But on thy breast Love lies,-immortal child!— legot of thine own longings, deep and wild :

The more we worship him, the more we grow
Into thy perfect image here below;
For here below, as in the spheres above,
All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Love!

Not from the things around us do we draw

Thy light within; within the light is born;" The growing rays of some forgotten morn, And added canons of eternal law. The painter's picture, the rapt poet's song,

The sculptor's statue, never saw the Day; Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay, Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong, Hue after hue divinest pictures grow,

Line after line immortal songs arise, And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow, The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes!

And in the master's mind

Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind, That echoes through a range of ocean caves, And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves!

The mystery is thine,

For thine the more mysterious human heart,
The temple of all wisdom, Beauty's shrine,
The oracle of Art!

Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath,

Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth?
Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,-

But all the keys of Death;

And all the worlds, with all that they contain Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone. The universe is girdled with a chain,

And hung below the throne

Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless,Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness!

SPRING.

THE trumpet winds have sounded a retreat,
Blowing o'er land and sea a sullen strain;
Usurping March, defeated, flies again,
And lays his trophies at the Winter's feet!
And lo!-where April, coming in his turn,

In changeful motleys, half of light and shade,
Leads his belated charge, a delicate maid,
A nymph with dripping urn.

Hail! hail! thrice hail!-thou fairest child of Time,
With all thy retinue of laughing hours,
Thou paragon from some diviner clime,

And ministrant of its benignest powers,
Who hath not caught the glancing of thy wing.
And peeped beneath thy mask, delicious Spring!
Sometimes we see thee on the pleasant morns

Of lingering March, with wreathéd crook of gold Leading the Ram from out his starry fd, A leash of light around his jagged hots! Sometimes in April, goading up the skies The Bull, whose neck Apollo's silvery flies Settle upon, a many-twinkling swarm; And when May-days are warm, And drawing to a close, And Flora goes

With Zephyr from his palace in the west,
Thou dost upsnatch the Twins from cradled rest,
And strain them to thy breast,

And haste to meet the expectant, bright new comer,
The opulent queen of Earth, the gay, voluptuous
Summer!

Unmuffled now, shorn of thy veil of showers,
Thou tripp'st along the mead with shining hair
Blown back, and scarf out-fluttering on the air,
White-handed, strewing the fresh sward with
flowers!

The green hills lift their foreheads far away;
But where thy pathway runs the sod is pressed
By fleecy lambs, behind the budding spray;
And troops of butterflies are hovering round,
And the small swallow drops upon the ground
Beside his mate and nest!

A little month ago, the sky was gray;

Snow tents were pitched along the mountain-side, Where March encamped his stormy legions wide, And shook his standard o'er the fields of Day! But now the sky is blue, the snow is flown, And every mountain is an emerald throne, And every cloud a dais fringed with light, And all below is beautiful and bright! The forest waves its plumes, the hedges blow, The south wind scuds along the meadowy sea Thick-flecked with daisied foam,-and violets grow Blue-eyed, and cowslips star the bloomy lea: The skylark floods the scene with pleasant rhyme; The ousel twitters in the swaying pine; And wild bees hum about the beds of thyme, And bend the clover-bells and eglantine; The snake casts off his skin in mossy nooks; The long-eared rabbits near their burrows play; The dormouse wakes; and see! the noisy rooks Sly foraging, about the stacks of hay!

What sights! what sounds! what rustic life and

mirth!

Housed all the winter long from bitter cold, Huddling in chimney-corners, young and old Come forth and share the gladness of the Earth. The ploughmen whistle as the furrows trail

Behind their glittering shares, a billowy row; The milkmaid sings a ditty while her pail

Grows full and frothy; and the cattle low; The hounds are yelping in the misty wood,

Starting the fox: the jolly huntsmen cheer;
And winding horns delight the listening ear,
And startle Echo in her solitude;
The teamster drives his wagon down the lane,
Flattening a broader rut in weeds and sand;
The angler fishes in the shady pool;
And loitering down the road with cap in hand,
The truant chases butterflies,-in vain,
Heedless of bells that call the village lads to school!
Methinks the world is sweeter than of yore,
More fresh, and fine, and more exceeding fair;
There is a presence never felt before,

The soul of inspiration everywhere;
Incarnate Youth in every idle limb,
My vernal days, my prime, return anew;
My tranced spirit breathes a silent hymn,
My heart is full of dew!

THE WITCH'S WHELP.

ALONG the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn,
Covered with thick green scum; the billows rise,
And fill them to the brim with clouded foam,
And then subside, and leave the scum again;
The ribbed sand is full of hollow gulfs,
Where monsters from the waters come and lie:

Great serpents bask at noon among the rocks,
To me no terror; coil on coil they roll
Back to their holes, before my flying feet;
The Dragon of the Sea, my mother's god,
Enormous Setebos, comes here to sleep;
Him I molest not; when he flaps his wing
A whirlwind rises, when he swims the deep
It threatens to engulf the trembling isle.

Sometimes when winds do blow, and clouds are dark,

I seek the blasted wood, whose barkless trunks
Are bleached with summer suns; the creaking trees
Stoop down to me, and swing me right and left
Through crashing limbs, but not a jot care I:
The thunder breaks o'erhead, and in their lairs
The panthers roar; from out the stormy clouds
With hearts of fire, sharp lightnings rain around
And split the oaks; not faster lizards run
Before the snake up the slant trunks than I;
Not faster down, sliding with hands and feet.
I stamp upon the ground, and adders rouse
Sharp-eyed, with poisonous fangs; beneath the

leaves

They couch, or under rocks, and roots of trees Felled by the winds; through briery undergrowth They slide with hissing tongues, beneath my feet To writhe, or in my fingers squeezed to death.

There is a wild and solitary pine,

Deep in the meadows; all the island birds
From far and near fly there, and learn new songs;
Something imprisoned in its wrinkled bark
Wails for its freedom; when the bigger light
Burns in mid-heaven, and dew elsewhere is dried,
There it still falls; the quivering leaves are tongues,
And load the air with syllables of wo.
One day I thrust my spear within a cleft
No wider than its point, and something shrieked,
And falling cones did pelt me sharp as hail :
I picked the seeds that grew between their plates,
And strung them round my neck, with sea-mew

eggs.

Hard by are swamps and marshes, reedy fens Knee-deep in water; monsters wade therein Thick-set with plated scales; sometimes in troops They crawl on slippery banks; sometimes they lash The sluggish waves, among themselves at war; Often I heave great rocks from off the crags, And crush their bones; often I push my spear Deep in their drowsy eyes, at which they howl And chase me inland; then I mount their humps And prick them back again, unwieldy, slow: At night the wolves are howling round the place, And bats sail there athwart the silver light, Flapping their wings; by day in hollow trees They hide, and slink into the gloom of dens. We live, my mother Sycorax and I,

In caves with bloated toads and crested snakes: