I only see that thou art near, THE BUILDERS. By LONGFELLOW. ALL are architects of fate Working in these walls of time, Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these! Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house, where Gods may dwell, Else our lives are incomplete, Build to-day, then, strong and sure, Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye RETROSPECTIONS. In this, as in many of OWEN MEREDITH's minor poems, there gleams something of the wild mystical mood of HEINE. TO-NIGHT she will dance at the Palace, But tones, at times, in the music Will bring back forgotten things: When her beauty is praised at the King's. There sits in his silent chamber A stern and sorrowful man: Of a sunset among the vineyards With fresh wild-flowers in her hand. BURIED GRIEFS. By CHARLES MACKAY. Oh! let them rest, the buried griefs, Oh! let them rest-their graves are green; So, on the solitary moor, The soldiers' graves are bright with flowers; There strays the bee to gather sweets, So let them rest-the buried griefs, The place is holy where they lie ; WHISPERS OF THE WATCHING SPIRIT. From a recent number of The Titan, where it appears anonymously. In youth I died, in maiden bloom; He took from me all wish to stay, They saw but sorrow; I descried I heard them sob, as through the night Their anguish could not hear. “Come, and fear not,” it softly cried; "We wait to lead thee to thy home." Then leap'd my spirit to reply, "I come, I long to come. I heard them whisper o'er my bed- Another hour, with bitter tears They bore me to the grave, and thought At will through boundless space. They cloth'd themselves in robes of black; Oft from my paradise I come, And talk in sadden'd tone of me, But time will ease their grief, and death LOVE AT TWO SCORE. A jovial lyric by THACKERAY. Ho! pretty page with dimpled chin, This is the way that boys begin. Wait till you've come to forty year! Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Wait till you've come to forty year! Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are grey ; Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome, ere Ever a month was pass'd away? The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd, Gillian's dead, Heaven rest her bier, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. |