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And again the tongues of flame

Start exulting and exclaim :

“These are prophets, bards, and seers;

In the horoscope of nations,

Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years.”

But the night-wind cries : “Despair !

Those who walk with feet of air

Leave no long-enduring marks ;

At God's forges incandescent

Mighty hammers beat incessant,

These are but the flying sparks.

“Dust are all the hands that wrought;

Books are sepulchres of thought ;

The dead laurels of the dead

Rustle for a moment only,

Like the withered leaves in lonely

Churchyards at some passing tread.”

Suddenly the flame sinks down;

Sink the rumors of renown;

And alone the night-wind drear

Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,

“'T is the brand of Meleager

Dying on the hearth-stone here !"

[blocks in formation]

THE BELLS OF LYNN,

HEARD AT NAHANT.

O

CURFEW of the setting sun ! O Bells of

Lynn !

O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of

Lynn!

From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral

wafted,

Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of

Lynn!

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson

twilight,

O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of

Lynn!

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the

headland,

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of

Lynn!

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle

homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of

Lynn!

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