Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear. They launched the burning ship! It floated far away Over the misty sea, Till like the sun it seemed, So perish the old Gods! Over its meadows green Walk the young bards and sing. Build it again O ye bards, Fairer than before! Ye fathers of the new race, The law of force is dead! Shall rule the earth no more, Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Preserve the freedom only, SUSPIRIA. TAKE them, O Death! and bear away THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens They walked not under the lindens, But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me, I pressed his warm, soft hand! THE SINGERS. GOD sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, The first, a youth, with soul of fire, Through groves he wandered, and by streams, The second, with a bearded face, A grey old man, the third and last, And those who heard the Singers three, But the great Master said, "I see I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. "These are the three great chords of might, Will hear no discord in the three, SONNET. ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSPEARE. O PRECIOUS evenings! all too swiftly sped! Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, O happy Reader! having for thy text The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught The rarest essence of all human thought! O happy Poet! by no critic vext! How must thy listening spirit now rejoice HYMN. FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION. CHRIST to the young man said: "Yet one thing more; If thou wouldst perfect be, Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, And come and follow me!" Within this temple Christ again, unseen, And evermore beside him on his way That he may lean upon his arm and say, Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, Oh, holy trust; Oh, endless sense of rest; To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on. GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 'Twas an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill; But, alas! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought; |