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Sadly I torn, and look before, where yet The flood must pass, and 1 behold a mist Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers Or wander among rainbows, fading soon And reappearing, haply giving place To shapes of grisly aspect, such as Fear Molds from the idle air; where serpents lift The head to strike, and skeletons stretch form The bony arm in menace. Further on A belt of darkness seems to bar the way, Long, low, and distant, where the Life that Is Touches the Life to Come. The Flood of Years Rolls toward it, near and nearer. It must pass That dismal barrier. What is there beyond? Hear what the wise and good have said.

Beyond

That belt of darkness still the years roll on
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep.
They gather up again and softly bear
All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed
Aud lost to sight— all that in them was good,
Noble and truly great and worthy of love—

The lives of infants and ingenuous youths,

Sages and saintly women who have made

Their households happy — all are raised and borne

By that great current in its onward sweep.

Wandering and rippling with caressing waves

Around green islands, fragrant with the breath

Of flowers that never wither. So they pass,

From stage to stage, along the shining course

Of that fair river broadening like a sea.

As its smooth eddies curl along their way,

They bring old friends together; hands are clasped

In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms

Again are folded round the child she loved

And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now,

Or but remembered to make sweet the hour

That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled

Or broke are healed forever. In the room

Of this grief-shadowed Present there shall be

A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw

The heart, and never shall a tender tie

Be broken — in whose reign the eternal Change

That waits on growth and action shall proceed

With everlasting Concord hand in hand.

William Ctjllen Bryant.

THE OLD WATER-WHEEL.

'lies beside the river, where its marge
Is black with many an old and oarless barge.
And yesty filth and leafage wild and rank
Stagnate and beaten by the crumbling bank.

Once, slow revolving by the industrious mill,
It murmured, — only on the sabbath still;
And evening winds its pulse-like beating bore
Down the soft vale and by the winding shore.

Sparkling around its orbed motion, flew.
With quick fresh fall, the drops of dashing dew:
Through noontide heat that gentle rain was flung,
And verdant, round, the summer herbage sprung.

Now, dancing light and sounding motion cease,
In these dark hours of cold continual peace;

Through its black bars the unbroken moonlight flows.
And dry winds howl about its long repose!

And mouldering lichens creep, aud mosses gray
Cling round its arms, in gradual decay.
Amidst the hum of men, — which doth not suit
That shadowy circle, motionless and mute!

So, by the sleep of many a human heart
The crowd of men may bear their busy part.
Where withered, or forgotten, or subdued,
Its noisy passions have left solitude : —

Ah! little can they trace the hidden truth.
What waves have moved it in the vale of youth!
And little can its broken chords avow
How once they sounded. All is silent, now!

John Rtsein.

THE BEAD.

|V| THINK about the dead by day, lis I dream of them at night: A They seem to staud beside my chair, 1 Clad in the clothes they used to wear, 'And by my bed in white.

The common-places of their lives,

The lightest words they said,
Revive in me, and give me pain,

And make me wish them back again.
Or wish that I were dead.

I would be kinder to them now.

Were they alive once more;
Would kiss their cheeks and kiss then- hair,
And love them like the angels there.

Upon the silent shore.

Richard Henry Stoddard.

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And flung a warm and sunny flush
O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral roeks are hurrying down,
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own.

0, many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturbed

The sleeper's long-drawn breath.

Instead of the murmur of the sea,

The sailor heard the humming tree

Alive through all its leaves,

The hum of the spreading sycamore

That grows before his cottage-door.

And the swallow's song in the eaves.

His arms enclosed a blooming boy,

Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy

To the dangers his father had passed;

And his wife.—-by turns she wept and smiled,

As she looked on the father of her child,

Returned to her heart at last.

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll.

And the rush of waters is in his soul.

Astounded, the reeling deck he paces,

Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;

The whole ship's crew are there!

Wailings around and overhead.

Brave spirits stupefied or dead.

And madness and despair.

John Wilson (Christopher North).

THE GLOVE AND THE LIOXS.

flNG Francis was a hearty king, and loved a De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively

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And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which alway

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The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in She thought, "The count, my lover, is brave as brave

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And 'mougst them sat the Count de Lorge, with He surely would do wondrous things to show his love

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And truly't was a gallant thing to see that crowning King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is

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Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glorv will

beasts below.

be mine."

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing Sne dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked

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at him and smiled;

They bit. they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions

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With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on Tne leaP TM quick, return was quick, he has regained

his place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the

one another;

Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;

lady's face.

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking "B>' Heaven!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he

through the air;

rose from where he sat:

Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better love," quoth ho, "but vanity, sets love a task like

here than there."

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Leigh Hunt.

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THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY;

HE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers rang by two, by three;

"Pull, if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.

"Play uppe, play uppe, O, Boston bells!
Play all your changes, all your swells,

Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolon tyde—
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;

But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall:

And there was naught of strange beside

The flight of mows and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within my doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;

The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies,

And dark against day's golden death

She moved when? Lindis wandereth,

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!*' calling
Ere the early dews wore falling,
Farre away, I hoard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!'* all along;
Where the reedy Lindis lloweth,

Floweth, floweth,
From the Holds where meliok groweth
Faintly came her milking song—

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!"'calling,
"For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come up Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed.*'

If it be long, ay, long ago.

When I begin to think how long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,

Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong;
And all the aire, it seometh moe.
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shoo).
That ring the tune of Enderby.

OR, THE HIGH TIDE. (1571.)

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene,

Save where full fyve good miles away
The steeple towered from out the greene;

And lo! the groat bell farre and wide

Was heard in all the country side

That Saturday at eventide.

The swanherds where there sedges are
Moved on in sunset's golden breath,

The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth;

Till floating o'er the grassy sea

Canio downe that kindly message free,

The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Thou some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis Hows

To whore the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows,

They sayde, "And why should this thing be?

AVhat danger lowers by land or sea?

They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe,

Of pyratc galleys warping down;
For shippes ashore beyond the seorpo,

They have not spared to wake the towne;
But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring 'The brides of Enderby?""

I looked without, and lo! my Sonne
Came riding down with might and main:

Ho raised a shout as ho drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again,

'•Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Thau my Sonne's wife Elizabeth.)

"The old sea wall (ho cried) is downe.
The rising tide comes on apace,

And boats adrift in youder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-place."

He shook as one that looks on death:

"God save you mother!" strait he saith,

'■Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, whore Lindis winds away,
Witli her two bairns. [ marked her long;

And ere yon bolls beganne to play
Afar I heard her milking song.

He looked across the grassy lea.

To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"

They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

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