THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

THE BELEAGUERED

CITY.

31

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace ;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,

As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;

Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,

And with a sorrowful, deep sound,

Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;

No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled;

Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

LINES ON LEAVING CASCO.

AN EXTRACT.

BY CHARLES H. PORTER.

FRESH from my heart what warm emotions spring,
As, scenes of youth, I bid ye all adieu;
While darts the steamer on her unseen wing,

And Casco fades 'neath evening's sombre hue. Swift glides our boat like magic o'er the wave, Dimly those shores are in the twilight sleeping; Pass we beneath the banner of the brave,

Where Scammel o'er the port its watch is keeping.

Match me, ye dwellers in Italia's land,

The hues that deck New England's sunset sky! Ye shores by Mediterranean breezes fanned,

Tho' from your groves rich columns tower on high, Though art has made your templed hills her home,

Tho' Genius there hath reared her sculptured piles, Though from each mount rise minaret and domeStill do ye fail beside these fairy isles.

Here have I loved the glowing moon to watch,
As she seemed hovering their soft slopes amid,—
Like a fair maid, whose eye alone can match

The sparkling gems, beneath her robes half hid. Here have I loved to greet the purple dawn,

And mark its kindling rays flash o'er the sea; Here, from the depths the silvery fish I've drawn, And boasted of my skillful treachery.

But cease, fond memory! for I would not dwell
Upon the past,-it only feeds regret ;
And as I leave each spot I love so well,
I would that I could all that past forget.
No! I would not forget the few, whose hearts
Still kindly cherished, though misfortune came;
Nor think ye when from all he now departs,

Those who proved false the wanderer would blame.

He can not blame what every age hath shown

Is nature's weakness, that while Fortune smiled, Friends flocked around him, but when she had flown, The most forsook adversity's lone child.

And thou of the warm heart and feelings true,

How did I watch thy bark's retreating sail,

That bore thee far across the waters blue,

To brave the surges' wrath, the sweeping gale ;