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And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air;

eyes, How could the light wind o'er the sea, That here once looked on glowing skies, blow on so fresh and fair?

Where summer siniled; How could the gay waves laugh and leap, These riven trees, this wind-swept plain

landward o'er sand and stone, Now show the winter's dread domain, While he, who knew and loved them

Its fury wild. all lay lapped in clay alone?

The rocks rise black from storm-packed But for long, when to the beetling heights

snow, the snow-tipped billows roll, All checked the river's pleasant flow, When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart Vanished the bloom;

around the herring shoal ; These dreary wastes of frozen plain When gear is sorted, and sails are set, Reflect my bosom's life again, and the merry breezes blow,

Now lonesome gloom. And away to the deep sea-harvest the stalwart reapers go,

The buoyant hopes and busy life A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they Have ended all in hateful strife, will give to him who lies

And thwarted aim. Where the clover springs, and the heather The world's rude contact killed the rose, blooms, beneath the northern skies. No more its radiant color shows

False roads to fame.

Backward, amidst the twilight glow

Some lingering spots yet brightly show JOHN C. FREMONT.

On hard roads won,

Where still somegrand peaks mark the way ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN- Touched by the light of parting day TAINS IN WINTER, AFTER MANY

And memory's sun. YEARS.

But here thick clouds the mountains hide, LONG years ago I wandered here,

The dim horizon bleak and wide
In the midsummer of the year,

No pathway shows,
Life's summer too;

And rising gusts, and darkening sky, A score of horsemen here we rode, Tell of "the night that cometh,” nigh, The mountain world its glories showed,

The brief day's close.
All fair to view.

These scenes in glowing colors drest,
Mirrored the life within my breast,

Its world of hopes;
The whispering woods and fragrant breeze

UNKNOWN
That stirred the grass in verdant seas
On billowy slopes,

JULY DAWNING.
And glistening crag in sunlit sky,
Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, WE left the city, street and square,
Were joys to me;

With lamplights glimmering through My path was o'er the prairie wide,

and through, Or here on grander mountain-side,

And turned us toward the suburb, To choose, all free.

where

Full from the east- the fresh wind The rose that waved in morning air,

blew. And spread its dewy fragrance there In careless bloom,

One cloud stood overhead the sun, Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue,

A giorious trail of dome and spire, O'er my glad life its color threw

The last star flickered, and was gone; And sweet perfume.

The first lark led the matin choir.

Wet was the grass beneath our tread, And the worn old cliff where the sea

Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; pinks cling, The lichen had a lovelier red,

And the winding caves where the echoes The elder-flower a fairer gray.

ring.

I shall wake them nevermore. And there was silence on the land, How it keeps calling, calling,

Save when, from out the city's fold, It is never a night to sail. Stricken by Time's remorseless wand, I saw the "sea-dog” over the height, A bell across the morning tolled. As I strained through the haze my fail

ing sight, The beeches sighed through all their And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellboughs;

nigh, The gusty pennons of the pine

As the old Fox” did in the days gone by, Swayed in a melancholy drowse,

In the moan of the rising gale. But with a motion sternly fine.

Yet it is calling, calling. One gable, full against the sun,

It is hard on a soul, I say, Flooded the garden-space beneath To go fluttering out in the cold and the With spices, sweet as cinnamon,

dark, From all its honeysuckled breath.

Like the bird they tell us of, from the

ark; Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, While the foam flies thick on the bitter The chimney-tops were plumed with

blast, smoke,

And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, The windinill shook its slanted arms,

Where the black buoy marks the bay. The sun was up, the country woke! And voices sounded mid the trees

Do

you hear it calling, calling? Of orchards red with burning leaves,

And yet, I am none so old. By thick hives, sentinelled by bees,

At the herring fishery, but last year, From fields which promised tented No boat beat mine for tackle and gear, sheaves;

And I steered the coble past the reef,

When the broad sail shook like a withTill the day waxed into excess,

ered leaf,
And on the misty, rounding gray,- And the rudder chafed my hold.
One vast, fantastic wilderness,
The glowing roofs of London lay. Will it never stop calling, calling?

Can't you sing a song by the hearth?
A heartsome stave of a merry glass,
Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass?

Don't you care for your grand-dad just
UNKNOWN.

so much? Come near then, give me a hand to touch, Still warm with the warmth of earth.

THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS.

TAE sea is calling, calling.

You hear it calling, calling ? Wife, is there a log to spare ?

Ask her why she sits and cries. Fling it down on the hearth and call She always did when the sea was up, them in,

She would fret, and never take bit or sup The boys and girls with their merry din, When I and the lads were out at night, I am loth to leave you all just yet, And she saw the breakers cresting white In the light and the noise I might forget, Beneath the low black skies. The voice in the evening air.

But, then, it is calling, calling, The sea is calling, calling,

No summons to soul was sent. Along the hollow shore.

Now- Well, fetch the parson, find the I know each nook in the rocky strand,

book, And the crimson weeds on thegolden sand, It is up on the shelf there if you look;

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

337

TWO MOODS.

the sky;

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The sea has been friend, and fire, and

bread; Put me, where it will tell of me, lying Singing along the river-side ;

I PLUCKED the harebells as I went dead,

The skies above were opulent
How It called, and I rose and went.

Of sunshine. “Ah! whate'er betide,
The world is sweet, is sweet," I cried,

That morning by the river-side.
MARY N. PRESCOTT,

The curlews called along the shore;

The boats put out from sandy beach; [U. S. A.]

Afar I heard the breakers' roar,

Mellowed to silver-sounding speech; WORK.

And still I sang it o'er and o'er,

“The world is sweet forevermore!" SWEET wind, fair wind, where have you

been? I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of Perhaps, to-day, some other one,

Loitering along the river-side,

Content beneath the gracious sun, I've been grinding a grist in the mill May sing, again, “Whate'er betide,

The world is sweet.” I shall not chide, I've been laughing at work while others sigh;

Although my song is done.
Let those laugh who win!"
Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?
I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells;
I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells;

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. I'm swelling the torrent and brimming

the wells;
Is that worth pursuing ?"

SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed I've been watching the nest where my

I toiled alone : fledgelings lie;

My toil was fashioning thought and I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby;

sound, and his was hewing stone; By and by I shall teach them to fly,

I worked in the palace of my brain, he Up and away, every one !"

in the common street,

And it seemed histoil was great and hard, Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you go

while mine was great and sweet. ing? "To fill my basket with precious pelf;

I said, “O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows, The heart nigh fails me many a day, but

worker too, Be it a thistle or be it a rose,

how is it with you? A secret worth the knowing!"

For while I toil great tears of joy will Each content with the work to be done,

sometimes fill my eyes, Ever the same from sun to sun:

And when I form my perfect work it lives

and never dies. Shall you and I be taught to work By the bee and the bird, that scorn to shirk ?

“I carve the marble of pure thought until

the thought takes form, Wind and rain fulfilling His word! Until it gleams before my soul and makes Tell me, was ever a legend heard

the world grow warm ; Where the wind, commanded to blow, Until there comes the glorious voice and deferred;

words that seem divine, Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, de- And the music reaches all men's hearts murred?

and draws them into mine.

“And yet for days it seems my heart shall | That while they nobly held it as each blossom never more,

man can do and bear, And the burden of my loneliness lies on It did not wholly fall my side as though me very sore:

no man were there. Therefore, o hewer of the stones that pave base human ways,

“And so we toil together many a day How canst thou bear the years till death,

from morn till night, made of such thankless days ?” I in the lower depths of life, they on the

lovely height; Then he replied: "Ere sunrise, when the For though the common stones are mine, pale lips of the day

and they have lofty cares, Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at Their work begins where this leaves off, warmth of the first ray,

and mine is part of theirs. A great thought rose within me, how,

while men asleep had lain, “And 't is not wholly mine or theirs I The thousand labors of the world had think of through the day, grown up once again.

But the great eternal thing we make to

gether, I and they; “The sun grew on the world, and on my Far in the sunset I behold a city that soul the thought grew too,

man owns, A great appalling sun, to light my soul Made fair with all their nobler toil, built the long day through.

of my common stones. I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began

Then noonward, as the task grows light With man's gigantic strength to do the with all the labor done, labor of one man.

The single thought of all the day be

comes a joyous one: I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men,

For, rising in my heart at last where it

has lain so long, The worker with the chisel and the It thrills up seeking for a voice, and worker with the pen,

grows almost a song. The restless toilers after good, who sow

and never reap, And one who maketh music for their “But when the evening comes, indeed,

the words have taken wing, souls that may not sleep. .

The thought sings in me still, but I am “Each passed me with a dauntless look,

all too tired to sing ; and my undaunted eyes

Therefore, O you my friend, who serve Were almost softened as they passed

the world with minstrelsy, with tears that strove to rise

Among our fellow-workers' songs make At sight of all those labors, and because

that one song for me." that every one, Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone.

ARCHDEACON HARE. “They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways,

ITALY. A PROPHECY. Together we began to-day as on the other

1818. days: I felt their mighty hands at work, and, STRIKE theloved harp; let the prelude be, as the day wore through,

Italy! Italy! Perhaps they felt that even I was help. That chord again, again that note of glee,ing somewhat too:

Italy! Italy!

Italy!O Italy! the very sound itcharmeth: “Perhaps they felt, as with those hands Italy! O Italy! the name my bosom warmthey lifted mightily

eth. The burden once more laid upon the High thought of self-devotions, world so heavily,

Compassionate emotions,

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Soul-stirring recollections,

| Truth hath decreed her joyous resurrecWith hopes, their bright reflections.

tion: Rush to my troubled heart at thought of She shall arise, she must. thee,

For can it be that wickedness hath power My own illustrious, injured Italy. To undermine or topple down the tower

Of virtue's edifice ?
Dear queen of snowy mountains,

And yet that vice
And consecrated fountains,

Should be allowed on sacred ground to Within whose rocky, heaven-aspiring pale

plant
Beauty has fixed a dwelling

A rock of adamant?
All others so excelling

It is of ice, To praise it right, thine own sweet tones That rock soon destined to dissolve away would fail;

Before the righteous sun's returning ray. Hail to thee! hail! How rich art thou in lakes to poet But who shall bear the dazzling radiancy, dear,

When first the royal Maid awaking And those broad pines amid the sunniest Darteth around her wild indignant eye, glade

When first her bright spear shaking, So reigning through the year, Fixing her feet on earth, her looks on sky, Within the magic circle of their shade She standeth like the Archangel prompt No sunbeam may appear!

to vanquish, How fair thy double sea!

Yet still imploring succor from on high? In blue celestially

0 days of weary hope and passionate Glittering and circling! but I may not

anguish,
dwell

When will ye end !
On gifts, which, decking thee too Until that end be come, until I hear
well,

The Alps their mighty voices blend, Allured the spoiler. Let me fix my ken To swell and echo back the sound most Rather upon thy godlike men,

dear The good, the wise, the valiant, and the To patriot hearts, the cry of Liberty, free,

I must live on. But when the glorious On history's pillars towering gloriously,

Queen
A trophy reared on high upon thy strand, | As erst is canopied with Freedom's sheen,

That every people, every clime When I have prest, with salutation meet,
May mark and understand,

With reverent love to kiss her honored What memorable courses may be run,

feet, What golden never-failing treasures won,

I then may die,
From time,

Die how well satisfied !
In spite of chance,

Conscious that I have watched the second
And worser ignorance,

birth If men be ruled by Duty's firm decree, Of her I've loved the most upon the And wisdom hold her paramount mas

earth, tery.

Conscious beside

That no more beauteous sight can here What art thou now? Alas! Alas!

be given: Woe, woe!

Sublimer visions are reserved for heaven. That strength and virtue thus should pass

From men below!
That so divine, so beautiful a Maid
Should in the withering dust be laid,

T. K. HERVEY.
As one that- Hush! who dares with
impious breath

EPITAPH. To speak of death? The fool alone and unbeliever weepeth. FAREWELL! since never more for thee We know she only sleepeth ;

The sun comes up our eastern skies, And from the dust,

Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be At the end of her correction,

To some fond hearts and saddened eyes.

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