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Very good in its way

Is the Verzenay,
Or the Sillery soft and creamy;

But Catawba wine

Has a taste more divine,
More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.

There grows no vine

By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir,

Nor on island or cape,

That bears such a grape As grows by the Beautiful River.

Drugged is their juice

For foreign use, When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,

To rack our brains

With the fever-pains That have driven the Old World frantic.

To the sewers and sinks

With all such drinks,
And after them tumble the mixer;

For a poison malign

Is such Borgia wine,
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring

Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it;

For Catawba wine

Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine,

This greeting of mine, The winds and the birds shall deliver

To the Queen of the West,

In her garlands dressed, On the banks of the Beautiful River.

Ah ! how cold are their caresses!

Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! O my songs! whose winsome measures

Filled my heart with secret rapt ure! Children of my golden leisures ! Must even your delights and pleasures

Fade and perish with the capture ! Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,

When they came to me unbidden;
Voices single and in chorus,
Like the wild birds singing o'er us

In the dark of branches hidden.
Disenchantment! Disillusion !

Must each noble aspiration
Come at last to this conclusion,
Jarring discord, wild confusion,

Lassitude, renunciation !
Not with steeper fall nor faster,

From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster

Icarus fell with shattered pinions! Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora!

Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora,

If to win thee is to hate thee?
No, not hate thee! for this feeling

Of unrest and long resistance
Is but passionate appealing,
A prophetic whisper stealing

O'er the chords of our existence.
Him whom thou dost once enamour,

Thou, beloved, never leavest;
In life's discord, strife, and clamour,
Still he feels thy spell of glamour;

Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted, Struggling souls by thee are strength

ened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and

sifted Lives, like days in summer, lengthened. Therefore art thou ever dearer,

O my Sibyl! my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer,


AFTERTHOUGHT. HAVE I dreamed? or was it real,

What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal, In the land of the ideal, Moved my thought o'er fields Ely

sian? What! are these the guests whose

glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round

me; These the wild, bewildered fancies, That with dithyrambic dances,

As with magic circles, bound me?

And the unattained seems nearer

And read what is still unread When thou fillest my heart with In the manuscripts of God.” fever!

And he wandered away and away Muse of all the Gifts and Graces !

With Nature, the dear old nurse, Though the fields around us wither, Who sang to him night and day There are ampler realms and spaces, The rhymes of the universe. Where no foot has left its traces ;

And whenever the way seemed long, Let us turn and wander thither.

Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song, THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF Or tell a more marvellous tale. AGASSIZ.

So she keeps him still a child,
MAY 28, 1857.

And will not let him go,
It was fifty years ago,

Though at times his heart beats wild In the pleasant month of May,

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,

Though at times he hears in his dreams A child in its cradle lay.

The Ranz des Vaches of old, And Nature, the old nurse, took

And the rush of mountain streams The child upon her knee,

From glaciers clear and cold; Saying: “ Here is a story-book

And the mother at home says, “Hark! l'hy Father has written for thee.” For his voice I listen and yearn; “ Come, wander with me,” she said, It is growing late and dark, “ Into regions yet untrod;

And my boy does not return!”



UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door:
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that flyi

Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, A tear out of his eyes.

Love gives itself, but is not bought;

Nor voice nor sound betrays
Toiling, --rejoicing, --sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;

Its deep impassioned gaze. Each morning sees some task begin, It comes,—the beautiful, the free, Each evening sees it close ;

The crown of all humanity,Something attempted, something done, In silence and alone Has earned a night's repose.

To seek the elected one. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep friend,

Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, For the lesson thou hast taught !

And kisses the closed eyes Thus at the flaming forge of life

Of him who slumbering lies. Our fortunes must be wrought; O weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes! Thus on its sounding anvil shaped O drooping souls, whose destinies Each burning deed and thought!

Are fraught with fear and pain,

Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

No one so utterly desolate, It rains, and the wind is never weary ;

But some heart, though unknown, The vine still clings to the mouldering

Responds unto his own. wall,

Responds, -as if with unseen wings But at every gust the dead leaves fall, An angel touched its quivering strings: And the day is dark and dreary.

And whispers, in its song,

“Where hast thou stayed so long?" My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the moulder- IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. ing past,

No hay pájaros en los nidos antaño.But the hopes of youth fall thick in the

Spanish Proverb. blast, And the days are dark and dreary.

The sun is bright, the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing, Be still, sad heart! and cease repining: And from the stately elms I hear Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; The blue-bird prophesying Spring. Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall,

So blue yon winding river flows, Some days must be dark and dreary.

It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie. ENDYMION.

All things are new; the buds, the The rising moon has hid the stars ;

leaves, Her level rays, like golden bars,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, Lie on the landscape green,

And even the nest beneath the eaves; With shadows brown between.

There are no birds if last year's nest! And silver white the river gleams, All things rejoice in youth and love, As if Diana, in her dreams,

The fulness of their first delight? Had dropt her silver bow

And learn from the soft heavens above Upon the meadows low.

The melting tenderness of night. On such a tranquil night as this

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme She woke Endymion with a kiss,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; When, sleeping in the grove, Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, He dreamed not of her love.

For O! it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest!

GOD'S-ACRE. I like that ancient Saxon phrase which

calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It

is just; It consecrates each grave within its

walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleep

ing dust. God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name

imparts Comfort to those who in the grave

have sown The seed that they had garnered in

their hearts, Their bread of life-alas! no more

their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise

again At the great harvest, when the arch

angel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff

and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal

bloom, In the fair gardens of that second

birth; And each bright blossom mingle its

perfume With that of flowers which never

bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death,

turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed

we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human har

vests grow!

No purple flowers, no 'garlands green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, Nor maddenmg draughts of Hippo

crene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between

Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round, With fennelis it wreathed and crowned, Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned Are in its waters steeped and drowned,

And give a bitter taste. Above the lowly plants it towers, The fennel, with its yellow flowers, And in an earlier age than ours Was gifted with the wondrous powers,

Lost vision to restore.
It gave new strength and fearless mood;
And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food ;
And he who battled and subdued,

A wreath of fennel wore.
Then in Life's goblet freely press
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the coloured waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give !
And he who has not learned to know
How false its sparkling bubbles show,
How bitter are the drops of woe
With which its brim may overflow,

He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate

fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight,

To see his foeman's face.
Let our unceasing earnest prayer
Be, too, for light,

-for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care, That crushes into dumb despair

One half the human race.
O suffering, sad humanity !
O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried !

THE GOBLET OF LIFE. Filled is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow.


I pledge you in this cup of grief,

And in better hours and brighter, Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! When I saw thy waters gleam, The battle of our Life is brief,

I have felt my heart beat lighter, The alarm,-the struggle,-the relief, - And leap onward with thy stream. Then sleep we side by side.

Not for this alone I love thee,

Nor because thy waves of blue

From celestial seas above thee
BLIND Bartimeus at the gates

Take their own celestial hue. Of Jericho in darkness waits ;

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide He hears the crowd ;-he hears a breath

thee, Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth ;”

And thy waters disappear, And calls, in tones of agony,

Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, Ιησού, ελέησόν με!

And have made thy margin dear. The thronging multitudes increase; More than this ;-thy name reminds me Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace !

Of three friends, all true and tried; But still, above the noisy crowd,

And that name, like magic, binds me The beggar's cry is shrill and loud: Closer, closer to thy side. Until they say, “He calleth thee!”

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! θάρσει, έγειραι, φωνεί σε!


like quivering flames they start, Then saith the Christ, as silent stands When I fan the living embers The crowd, “What wilt thou at my On the hearth-stone of my heart ! hands?”

Tis for this, thou Silent River ! And he replies, “O give me light!

That my spirit leans to thee; Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!”

Thou hast been a generous giver, And Jesus answers, "Yraye

Take this idle song from me.
“Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε!
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,

EXCELSIOR. Recall those mighty Voices Three, The shades of night were falling fast, 'Ιησού ελέησόν με !

As through an Alpine village passed θάρσει, έγειραι, ύπαγε !

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, "Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε!

A banner with the strange device,

Excelsior! TO THE RIVER CHARLES His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, RIVER ! that in silence windest

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;

And like a silver clarion rung, Through the meadows bright and free,

The accents of that unknown tongue,

Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea !

In happy homes he saw the light
Four long years of mingled feeling,'

Of household fires gleam warm and Half in rest, and half in strife,

bright; I have seen thy waters stealing

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, Onward, like the stream of life.

And from his lips escaped a groan,

Thou has taught me, Silent River !
Many a lesson, deep and long;

Try not the Pass!" the old man said, Thou hast been a generous giver;

Dark lowers the tempest overhead, I can give thee but a song.

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" Oft in sadness and in illness

And loud that clarion voice replied, I have watched thy current glide

Excelsior! Till the beauty of its stillness

“O stay,” the maiden said, “and resť Overflowed me like a tide.

Thy weary head upon this breast!”

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