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Drew in the expression of an eye Where God and nature met in light.
And thus he bore without abuse
The grand old name of gentleman,
Defamed by every charlatan, And soiled with all ignoble use.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
The year is going, let him go;
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old; Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.
The churl in spirit, up or down
Along the scale of ranks, through all,
To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown; The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil
His want in forms for fashion's sake,
Will let his coltish nature break At seasons through the gilded pale. For who can always act? But he,
To whom a thousand memories call,
Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seemed to be, Best seemed the thing he was; and joined
Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind.
SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER
She hath had her bud and blossom; Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom!
She hath done her bidding here,
And her mind was seen to soar,
BRYAN W. PROCTER.
Nor ever narrowness or spite,
Or villain fancy fleeting by,
DARTING® with friends is temporary death, A
PARTING AND DEATH.
THE PHANTOM. (From "Michael Angelo.'')
GAIN I sit within the mansion,
In the old familiar seat; © As all death is. We see no more their And shade and sunshine chase each other faces,
O'er the carpet at my feet. Nor hear their voices, save in memory;
But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upBut messages of love give us assurance
wards That we are not forgotten. Who shall say
In the summers that are past, That from the world of spirits, comes no
And the willow trails its branches lower
Than when I saw them last.
From out the haunted room;
To fill the house, that once was joyful,
With silence and with gloom.
Voices, that wake the sweeter music
The songs she loved to hear;
Whose flowers to her were dear.
Her blushes at the door,
Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more.
Unmindful of my pain,
And soon will come again.
She stays without, perchance, a moment, And such continual issue. Still awhile
To dress her dark-brown hair; Have patience; I will come to thee at last.
I hear the rustle of her garments,
Her light step on the stair:
Lest eyes profane should see
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture
Her coming brings to me!
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor! Or speak or think of him, or weep for him.
Ah!'tis the whispering pine that calls me, By unseen hands uplifted in the night
The vine, whose shadow strays; Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud
And my patient heart must still await her, Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad,
chide her long delays. And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, And melts into the air. Ah, would that I
As many a time before;
Yet never passes o’er.
SONNET. WEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy And happy days with thee come not again; goodly train,
The sad memorials only of my pain Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright Do with thee come, which turns my sweets with flowers;
Thou art the same which still thou wast be
fore, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; But she, whose breath embalmed thy whole
some air, The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore. The clouds for joy in pearls weep down Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come, their showers.
When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb. Thou turn'st, sweet youth; but ah! my
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. pleasant hours
· DEATH OF GABRIEL.
That the dying once more might rejoice in (From " Evangeline.")
their splendor and beauty.
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corriTHEN it came to pass that a pestilence fell
dors, cooled by the east wind, on the city,
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by
from the belfry of Christ Church, flocks of wild pigeons,
While, intermingled with these, across the Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught meadows were wafted in their craws but an acorn.
Sounds of psalms that were sung by the And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month
Swedes at their church in Wicaco. of September,
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads hour on her spirit; like a lake in the meadow,
Something within her said: “At length thy So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its nat trials are ended;" ural margin,
And, with light in her looks, she entered the Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of chambers of sickness. existence.
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careWealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to ful attendants, charm the oppressor,
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching But all perished alike beneath the scourge of brow, and in silence
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends
concealing their faces, nor attendants,
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of
snow by the roadside. the homeless.
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of
entered, meadows and woodlands;
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its passed, for her presence gateway and wicket,
Fell on their hearts like a ray of sun on the Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls of a prison. walls seem to echo
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had heal-
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the
Vacant their places were, or filled already by Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead strangers. with splendor,
Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of wonder, saints and apostles,
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a while a shudder distance.
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the flowers dropped from her fingers, city celestial,
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and Into whose shining gates their spirits ere long bloom of the morning; would enter.
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, terrible auguish deserted and silent,
That the dying heard it and started up from Wending 'her quiet way, she entered the door their pillows.
of the almshouse. Sweet on the summer air was the odor of On the pallet before her was stretched the flowers in the garden,
form of an old man; And she paused on her way to gather the fair. Long, and thin, and gray, were the locks that est among them,
shaded his temples;