THE Reverend WILLIAM C. DOANE, A.M., second son of the Right Reverend GEORGE W. DOANE, D.D., LL. D., was born in Boston, in March, 1832; graduated at Burlington College, 1830; ordained deacon, by his father, in March, 1853; and is now assistant minister of St. Mary's Church, Burlington, of which his father is the

rector, and adjunct professor of English literature and instructor in Anglo-Saxon, in Burlington College. His poetical productions have been published in "The Missionary," of which he was the editor, and in other newspapers. They are meditative, graceful, and fanciful, and promise a great excellence.

GREY CLIFF, NEWPOI !.*

WHAT strivest thou for, oh thou most mighty ocean,
Rolling thy ceaseless sweeping surfs ashore?
Canst thou not stay that restless wild commotion?
Must that low murmur moan for evermore?
Yet thou art better than our hearts, though yearning
Still for some unattainéd, unknown land;
Thou still art constant, evermore returning,

With each fresh wind, to kiss our waiting strand.
Oh, heart! if restless, like the yearning ocean,
Like it be all thy waves, of one emotion!
Whither, with canvas wings, oh ship, art sailing-
Homeward or outward-bound, to shore or sea?
What thought within thy strong sides is prevailing,
Hope or despair, sorrow or careless glee?
Thou, too, art like our hearts, which gayly seeming,
With hope sails set, to catch each fresh'ning breeze,
In truth art sad, with tears and trials teeming-
Perhaps to sail no more on life's wild seas.
Oh, heart! while sailing, like a ship, remember,
Thou, too, may'st founder, in a rough December!
Why, your white arms, ye windmills, are ye crossing
In sad succession to the evening breeze,
As though within your gray old heads were tossing
Thoughts of fatigue, and longings after ease?-
But ye are better than our hearts, for grieving,
Over your cares, ye work your destined way,
While they, their solemn duties weakly leaving,
In helpless sorrow weep their lives away.
Oh, heart! if like those hoary giants mourning,
Why not be taught, by their instructive warning!

MY FATHER'S FIFTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY.

A YEAR of stir, and storm, and strife, Has mixed the snows of time

With the sharp hail of thickening cares
Upon thy brow sublime.

But yet the firm undaunted step
That marks the might of truth-
The eye undimmed, the fearless heart,
Are thine, as in thy youth.

* My sister's home.

And as the tree that feels the gale
The fiercest and the first,
Glistens the soonest in the sun,

Through scattered storm-clouds burst,So, when the false world's strife is done And time has passed away,

The brightest beam of heaven's own light About thy head shall play!

SHELLS.

FAR out at sea a tiny boat
Has set its tiny sail,
And, swiftly, see it onward float,
As freshens still the gale.
A rainbow in it must have slept
To lend it tints so fair,
Or loveliest angel o'er it wept-
A pearl in every tear.
Fairer than pen of mine can tell
Sails on that fearless tiny shell.
Deep in the chambers of the sea,

Where storied mermaids dwell,
A palace stood: and seemed to me,
Its every stone a shell;

And oh, what glorious hues were they
That sparkled on my eyes,
Of blue and gold, and red and gray,

Like tints of western skies!

As violets sweet in loveliest dells,
So blushed unseen those beauteous shells
Thus, on the sea, and 'neath its waves
Those tinctured sea-gems lie,
Like tombstones set to mark the graves
Of low-born men and high;
And, when they rest upon the shore,
In wealth's luxuriant ease,
They sound to us the solemn roar

They learned beneath the seas,—
As exiles, though afar they roam,
Still sing the songs they learned at home.*
"Pleased they remember their august abodes,
And murmur, as the ocean murmurs there."
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

OH! that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last;

That the enemy's mines had crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men and we all worked on ;
It was one day more, of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a Corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,
And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee;
"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh,"
she said,

"Oh! please then waken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor,
In the flecking of woodbine-shade,

When the house-dog sprawls by the half-open door,

And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death;

But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream
Of an English village-lane,

And wall and garden;-a sudden scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening,
And then a broad gladness broke
All over her face, and she took my hand
And drew me near and spoke :

"The Highlanders! Oh! dinna ye hear? The slogan far awa?

The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'.

"God bless thae bonny Highlanders ! We're saved! We're saved!" she cried; And fell on her knees, and thanks to God Poured forth, like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry
Had fallen among the men:

And they started; for they were there to die;
Was life so near them then?

They listened, for life; and the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar

Were all; and the Colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said, "That slogan's dune;
But can ye no hear them, noo,

The Campbells are comin'? It's no a dream; Our succors hae broken through!

We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;

So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it must be heard ;
A shrilling, ceaseless sound;

It was no noise of the strife afar,
Or the sappers underground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders,

And now they played "Auld Lang Syne :" It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line.

And they wept and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;
And every one knelt down where we stood,
And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy day, when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first;

And the General took her hand, and cheers From the men, like a volley, burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
For the pipes played " Auld Lang Syne."

THE BARREN FIELD.

HERE I labor, weak and lone,
Ever, ever sowing seed;
Ever tending what is sown:
Little is my gain, indeed.

Weary day and restless night
Follow in an endless round;
Wastes my little human might:
Soon my place will not be found.

Why so stubborn is my fleld?
Why does little fruit appear?
What an hundred-fold should yield,
Now goes barren all the year.

After all the sun and rain,
Weak and yellow drooping things,
From the lean earth, turned in vain,
These are all my labor wrings!

Oh, my Lord, the field is Thine:
Why do I, with empty pride,
Call the little garden mine,
When my work is Thine, beside?

If I claim it for my own,
Thou wilt give me its poor gain;
And, at harvest, I, alone,
May bring fruits to Thee in vain.

If I give myself to Thee

For Thy work, all poor and mean,
As Thou pleasest it shall be,
If I much or little glean :

Yet Thou wilt not spurn my toil,
Or my offering, at the last,
If, from off this meagre soil,
At Thy feet my al! is cast.

Other work for man is none,
But to do the Master's will;

Wet with rain, or parched with sun,
Meekly I Thy garden till.

LOVE DISPOSED OF.

HERE goes Love! Now cut him clear,
A weight about his neck:
If he linger longer here,
Our ship will be a wreck.
Overboard! Overboard!
Down let him go!

In the deep he may sleep,
Where the corals grow.

He said he'd woo the gentle breeze, A bright tear in her eye;

But she was false or hard to please,
Or he has told a lie.

Overboard! Overboard!
Down in the sea

He may find a truer mind,
Where the mermaids be.

He sang us many a merry song
While the breeze was kind:
But he has been lamenting long
The falseness of the wind.
Overboard! Overboard!
Under the wave

Let him sing where smooth shells ring
In the ocean's cave.

He may struggle; he may weep;
We'll be stern and cold;

His grief will find, within the deep,
More tears than can be told.

A BURIAL-HYMN.

TO BE SUNG ON THE WAY TO THE GRAVE.

WE bring Thee, Lord, this little dust
To lay in earth away:

In thy sure watch we meekly trust
To keep it for the Day.

Thy will be done! This dust, all dead,
Must lose its fairer form,
And graces in the deep grave shed,
That almost yet are warm.

We thank Thee for the little while
Our child lived here in love,
To glad a narrow place with smile
As from Thy house above.

And more, oh! we must thank Thee more, That dew of upper day

Baptized his earthly being o'er,

And spirit hallowed clay.

AN ANTHEM-CAROL FOR CHRIST

MAS.

Our of highest heaven dropping, Like tinkling rain upon the sea Came sweet music, swelling, stopping, "Twas the angels' symphony. "Glory be to God on high! Ran like lightning round the sky: Then, like rain-drops, fell agen, "Peace on earth, good-will to men!”

THE WARNED ONE.

SILENT watcher, seest thou aught
On the far-off ocean's brim?
Has thine eye a meaning caught
In the mist-world's changeful whim?
Gaze full long, and gaze full deep: .
There is that which chaseth sleep
In the spirit-forms that rise
Far before thy fated eyes:
Be thou, watcher, timely wise.

Blessed are those sons of men
For whose sake a light is set
Out beside things far-off, yet,
So to bring them within ken;
Showing them in ghastly white,
While beyond is depth of night:
Blessed are they, if they know
What these things far-moving are,
Coming, coming, sure if slow,
They give warning thus, afar.

HERE, Charmian, take my bracelets,

They bar with purple stain
My arms; turn over my pillows-
They are hot where I have lain :
Open the lattice wider,

A gauze o'er my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odours

That over the garden blow.

I dreamed I was with my Anthony,
And in his arms I lay :

Ah, me! the vision has vanished

The music has died away.

The flame and the perfume have perished-
As this spiced aromatic pastille

That wound the blue smoke of its odour
Is now but an ashy hill.

How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!
Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Anthony!
Cry, "Come, my love, come home!"
Shriek, "Anthony! Anthony! Anthony!"
Till he hears you even in Rome.

There-leave me, and take from my chamber
That stupid little gazelle,

With its bright black eyes so meaningless,

And its silly tinkling bell!

Take him,-my nerves he vexes—

The thing without blood or brain

Or, by the body of Isis,

I'll snap his thin neck in twain !

Leave me to gaze at the landscape
Mistily stretching away,
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,
And melted, as in a crucible,

Their earthly forms expire;

And the bald blear skull of the desert
With glowing mountains is crowned,
That burning like molten jewels
Circle its temples round.

I will lie and dream of the past time
Eons of thought away,

And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play;

When a smooth and velvety tiger,
Ribbed with yellow and black,
Supple and cushion-footed,

I wandered, where never the track
Of a human creature had rustled

The silence of mighty woods,
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,
I knew but the law of my moods.
The elephant, trumpeting, started,
When he heard my footsteps near,
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly
In a yellow cloud of fear.

I sucked in the noontide splendour,
Quivering along the glade,
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,
Basked in the tamarisk shade,
Till I heard my wild mate roaring,
As the shadows of night came on,
To brood in the trees' thick branches,
And the shadow of sleep was gone;
Then I roused, and roared in anger,
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet

My curving claws, and stretched me,

And wandered my mate to greet. We toyed in the amber moonlight, Upon the warm flat sand,

And struck at each other our massive arms

How powerful he was and grand!

His yellow eyes flashed fiercely

As he crouched and gazed at me,
And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched curving nervously.
Then like a storm he seized me,

With a wild triumphant cry,
And we met, as two clouds in heaven,
When the thunders before them fly.
We grappled and struggled together,

For his love like his rage was rude;
And his teeth in the swelling folds of
At times, in our play, drew blood.

Often another suitor

For I was flexile and fairFought for me in the moonlight,

While I lay crouching there,

my

Till his blood was drained by the desert; And, ruffled with triumph and power, He licked me and lay beside me

To breathe him a vast half-hour.
Then down to the fountain we loitered,
Where the antelopes came to drink;
Like a bolt we sprang upon them,
Ere they had time to shrink.

We drank their blood and crushed them,
And tore them limb from limb,
And the hungriest lion doubted,
Ere he disputed with him.

That was a life to live for!

Not this weak human life,

With its frivolous bloodless passions, Its poor and petty strife!

Come, to my arms, my hero,

The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger's ancient fierceness In my veins begins to flow. Come not cringing to sue me! Take me with triumph and power, As a warrior wins a fortress!

I will not shrink nor cower. Come, as you came in the desert,

Ere we were women and men, When the tiger passions were in us, And love as you loved me then!

PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE. [DEDICATED TO r. b.]

A THOUSAND silent years ago, The twilight faint and pale Was drawing o'er the sunset glow Its soft and shadowy veil;

neck

When from his work the Sculptor stayed
His hand, and, turned to one

Who stood beside him, half in shade,
Said, with a sigh, ""Tis done.