Will hover their shining legions,

And the battle be divine!

And should you fall in the conflict,

O glorious, glad surprise! White-winged camels will bear you thence

To the bowers of Paradise

Up to the crystal fountains,

And the feast of the Tuba tree,

The songs of Israfil to hear,

The face of God to see!

Allah! I long for the onset !

Moslems! welcome the day

When forth in the rosy dawn we sweep

As victors to the fray!

For fierce as the lion leaping

At night from his woody lair;

Dread as the hot simoom whose breath

No living thing may dare;

Strong as the sun when he mounts the sky
To bathe in the western sea-

So fierce, to the godless of the earth,
So dread, so strong are we!

And, by the soul of Mohammed—
Nay, by the throne of God-
The Infidel and the Spoiler

Shall into the dust be trod!
And away by the winds of heaven
As worthless chaff be blown,
And the Prophet, and true Believers,
Shall rule in the earth alone!

O LOVED AND LOST!

I sit beside the sea this autumn day,
When sky and tide are ravishingly blue,
And melt into each other. Down the bay
The stately ships drift by so still and slow,
That, on the horizon's verge, I scarce may know
Which be the sails along the wave that glow,
And which the clouds that float the azure through.

From beds of golden-rod and asters steal

The south-winds, soft as any breath of May;
High in the sunny air the white gulls wheel,
As noiseless as the cloud they poise below;
And, in the hush, the light waves come and go
As if a spell entranced them, and their flow
Echoed the beat of oceans far away.

O loved and lost! can you not stoop to me
This perfect morn, when heaven and earth are one?
The south winds breathe of you; I only see
(Alas, the vision sweet can naught avail !)
Your image in the cloud, the wave, the sail;
And heed nor calm, nor storm, nor bliss, nor bale,
Remembering you have gone beyond the sun.

One look into your eyes; one clasp of hands;
One murmured, “Lo, I love you as before;
And I would give you to your viewless lands
And wait my time with never tear or sigh;—
But not a whisper comes from earth or sky,
And the sole answer to my yearning cry

Is the faint wash of waves along the shore.

Lord! dost thou see how dread a thing is death
When silence such as this is all it leaves ?—
To watch in agony the parting breath

Till the fond eyes are closed, the dear voice still;
And know that not the wildest prayer can thrill
Thee to awake them, but our grief must fill

Alike the rosy morns, the rainy eves.

Ah! thou dost see; and not a pang is vain!-
Some joy of every anguish must be born;
Else this one planet's weight of loss and pain
Would stay the stars in sympathetic woe,

And make the suns move pale, and cold, and slow,
Till all was black and void thy throne below,

And night shut down without a gleam of morn.

But mark! the sun goes radiant to his goal

While winds make music o'er the laughing sea; And, with his set, the starry host will roll Celestial splendors over mead and main; Lord! can thy worlds be glad, and death enchain ? Nay! 'tis but crowning for immortal reign

In the pure realm where all abide with thee.

What star has seen the sun at cloudless noon?

What chrysalis knows aught of wings that soar?—

O blessed souls! how can I hope the boon

Of look or word from you, the glorified,
Until for me the shining gates swing wide?—
Welcome the day when the great deeps divide,
And we are one in life for evermore!

Alice Wellington Rollins.

BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI.

Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud Cæsar made
His legions hers, to win her victories,

Denied him when her gods let Casca's blade

Pierce him who learned to make her legions his.
Still he is mighty; with unchanging dread

Her people murmur for great Cæsar slain;
Nor value, at the price of Cæsar dead,

Their greater cause lost on Philippi's plain.
If haply there are fields, as some pretend,
Beyond the silent Styx, where vaguely grim
Souls of dead heroes, shadowy and dim,
Awake,-I may find entrance at life's end,
Not as a hero who freed Rome from him,
But as a man who once was Cæsar's friend!

THE DIFFERENCE.

One day I heard a little lady say,

"O morning-glory, would that I were you!
Twining around the porch that lovely way,

Where you will see my dear one coming through.

So fair you are, he'll surely notice you,
And wait perhaps a moment, just to praise
The clinging prettiness of all your ways,
And tender tint of melting white and blue.
O morning-glory, would that I were you!

I heard the little lady's lover say,
"O rose-white daisy, dying in the dew,

Breathing your half-crushed, fainting life away
Under her footstep,-would that I were you!
For when how cruelly she wounded you,

She turned to see in pitying distress,

With murmured words of sorrowing tenderness

Close to her lips your bruised leaves she will press;—

O drooping daisy, would that I were you!"

INDIAN SUMMER.

Linger, O day!

Let not thy purple haze

Fade utterly away.

The Indian summer lays

Her tender touch upon the emerald hills.
Exquisite thrills

Of delicate gladness fill the blue-veined air.
More restful even than rest,

The passionate sweetness that is everywhere.
Soft splendors in the west

Touch with the charm of coming changefulness
The yielding hills.

O linger, day!

Let not the dear

Delicious languor of thy dreamfulness

Vanish away!