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Lo! the movement too wondrous to name!

Agitation and rapture, the press

As of myriad waves that caress, And break into vanishing flame.

Ah! but the exquisite strain,

Sinking to pathos so sweet!

Is life then a lie and a cheat? Hark to the hopeless refrain !

Comes a shock like the voice of a soul

Lost to good, to all beauty and joy,

Led alone by the powers that destroy, And fighting with fiends for control.

Drops a chord like the grave's first clod.

Then again toss the waves of caprice,

Wild, delicate, sweet, with no peace, No health, and no yielding to God.

O Siren, that charmest the air

With this potent and passionate spell,

Sad as songs of the angels that fell, Thou leadest alone to despair!

What troubles the night? It grows chill Let the we

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Fronts us the infinite sea And Nature is holy and still.

Celia Thaxter.


Passion and pain, the outcry of despair,

The pang of unattainable desire,
And youth's delight in pleasures that expire,
And sweet high dreamings of the good and

fair Clashing in swift soul-storm, through which

no prayer Uplifted stays the destined death-stroke

dire! Then through a mighty sorrowing as

through fire The soul burnt pure yearns forth into the

air Of the dear earth and, with the scent of

flowers And song of birds refreshed, takes heart

again, Made cheerier with this drinking of God's

wine, And turns with healing to the world of men; And high above a sweet strong angel towers, And Love makes life triumphant and divine.

Richard Hovey.


The mind's deep history here in tones is

wrought, The faith, the struggles of the aspiring soul, The confidence of youth, the chill control Of manhood's doubts by stern experience

taught; Alternate moods of bold and timorous thought, Sunshine and shadow - cloud and aureole ; The failing foothold as the shining goal Appears, and truth so long, so fondly sought Is blurred and dimmed. Again and yet again The exulting march resounds. We must win

now ! Slowly the doubts dissolve in clearer air. Bolder and grander the triumphal strain Ascends. Heaven's light is glancing on the

brow, And turns to boundless hope the old despair.

Christopher P. Cranch.



Sounding above the warring of the years,
Over their stretch of toil and pain and fears,

Comes the well-loved refrain,
The ancient voice again.

Sweeter than when, beside the river's marge,
We lay and watched, like innocence at large,

The cheerful waters flow,
Speaks this brave music now.

Tender as sunlight upon childhood's head,
Serene as moonlight upon childhood's bed,

Comes the remembered power
Of that long-vanished hour.

The river ran with merry voice and low,
The gentle ripples rippling far below,

Talked with no idle voice,
Though idling were their choice.

Now through the tumult and the pride of life, Gentler, yet firmly soothing all its strife,

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