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 crimson weeds on the golden sand,

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

blast,

And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay.

Do you hear it calling, calling?
And yet, I am none so old.
At the herring fishery, but last year,
No boat beat mine for tackle and gear,
And I steered the coble past the reef,
When the broad sail shook like a with-
ered leaf,

And the rudder chafed my hold.

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
so much?

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

You hear it calling, calling?
Ask her why she sits and cries.
She always did when the sea was up,
She would fret, and never take bit or sup
When I and the lads were out at night,
And she saw the breakers cresting white
Beneath the low black skies.

But, then, it is calling, calling,
No summons to soul was sent.
Now- Well, fetch the parson, find the
book,

It is up on the shelf there if you look;

"I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of

the sky;

I've been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;

I've been laughing at work while others sigh;

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; I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;

Is that worth pursuing?"

Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? "I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby; By and by I shall teach them to fly, Up and away, every one!'

Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going?

"To fill my basket with precious pelf; To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows, Be it a thistle or be it a rose, —

A secret worth the knowing!"

Each content with the work to be done,
Ever the same from sun to sun:
Shall you and I be taught to work
By the bee and the bird, that scorn to
shirk?

Wind and rain fulfilling His word!
Tell me, was ever a legend heard
Where the wind, commanded to blow,
deferred;

Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred?

TWO MOODS.

I PLUCKED the harebells as I went

337

Singing along the river-side;
The skies above were opulent
Of sunshine. "Ah! whate'er betide,
The world is sweet, is sweet," I cried,
That morning by the river-side.

The curlews called along the shore;
The boats put out from sandy beach;
Afar I heard the breakers' roar,
Mellowed to silver-sounding speech;
And still I sang it o'er and o'er,
"The world is sweet forevermore!"

Perhaps, to-day, some other one,
Loitering along the river-side,
Content beneath the gracious sun,
May sing, again, "Whate'er betide,
The world is sweet." I shall not chide,
Although my song is done.

blossom never more,

And the burden of my loneliness lies on

me very sore:

Therefore, O hewer of the stones that pave base human ways, How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days?"

Then he replied: "Ere sunrise, when the

pale lips of the day

Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray,

A great thought rose within me, how, while men asleep had lain, The thousand labors of the world had grown up once again.

"The sun grew on the world, and on my

soul the thought grew too,

A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through.

I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began

With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man.

"I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men,

The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen,

The restless toilers after good, who sow and never reap,

And one who maketh music for their

souls that may not sleep.

"Each passed me with a dauntless look,

and my undaunted eyes Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise At sight of all those labors, and because

that every one,

Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone.

"They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways,

Together we began to-day as on the other days:

I felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the day wore through, Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too:

"Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily

The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily,

man can do and bear,

It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there.

Dear queen of snowy mountains,
And consecrated fountains,

Within whose rocky, heaven-aspiring pale
Beauty has fixed a dwelling
All others so excelling

339

Truth hath decreed her joyous resurrection:

She shall arise, she must.

For can it be that wickedness hath power To undermine or topple down the tower Of virtue's edifice?

A rock of adamant?

It is of ice,

would fail;

Hail to thee! hail!

How rich art thou in lakes to poet dear,

And those broad pines amid the sunniest glade

So reigning through the year, Within the magic circle of their shade No sunbeam may appear!

How fair thy double sea!

In blue celestially

Glittering and circling! but I may not dwell

On gifts, which, decking thee too well, Allured the spoiler. Let me fix my ken Rather upon thy godlike men, The good, the wise, the valiant, and the free,

On history's pillars towering gloriously,
A trophy reared on high upon thy strand,
That every people, every clime
May mark and understand,
What memorable courses may be run,
What golden never-failing treasures won,
From time,

In spite of chance,

And worser ignorance,

If men be ruled by Duty's firm decree, And wisdom hold her paramount mastery.

What art thou now? Alas! Alas!

Before the righteous sun's returning ray.

But who shall bear the dazzling radiancy, When first the royal Maid awaking Darteth around her wild indignant eye, When first her bright spear shaking, Fixing her feet on earth, her looks on sky, She standeth like the Archangel prompt to vanquish,

Yet still imploring succor from on high? O days of weary hope and passionate anguish,

When will ye end!

Until that end be come, until I hear

The Alps their mighty voices blend, To swell and echo back the sound most dear

To patriot hearts, the cry of Liberty,
I must live on. But when the glorious
Queen

As erst is canopied with Freedom's sheen,
When I have prest, with salutation meet,
With reverent love to kiss her honored
feet,

I then may die,

Die how well satisfied!

Conscious that I have watched the second birth

Of her I've loved the most upon the earth,

Conscious beside

That no more beauteous sight can here be given:

Sublimer visions are reserved for heaven.

T. K. HERVEY.

EPITAPH.

FAREWELL! since never more for thee The sun comes up our eastern skies, Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be To some fond hearts and saddened eyes.