And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,
Fallen from on high,

Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die,
All their concerted springs of harmony
Snapp'd rudely, and the generous music gone.

A strain, a mellow strain

Of wailing sweetness, fill'd the earth and sky:
The stars lamenting in unborrow'd pain
That one of the selectest ones must die;

Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!
Alas! 'tis evermore the destiny,—

The hope heart-cherish'd is the soonest lost;
The flower first budded soonest feels the frost:
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest?
And, like the pale star shooting down the sky,
Look they not ever brightest when they fly
The desolate home they bless'd?

THE PRAYER OF THE LYRE.

How sweetly doth the night Send forth her silvery light, Sprinkling gay gleams along the slumbering sea; While gentle wings, that rise

In the far eastern skies,

Bring to the sense a sad, strange melody.

And silent is the crowd,

The voices, vex'd and loud,

That had been death to these sweet spells around,— Oh! let us seek yon beach,

Where, full of solemn speech,

The billows wake our thoughts to themes profound!

Night is thought's minister,

And we, who rove with her,

Err not to seek her now in scene so bright,

Scene that too soon departs,

Yet meet for gentle hearts,

And, like the truth they pledge, lovely in heaven's own sight.

"Twas in such hour as this,

When roused to heaven-wrought bliss,

The ancient bard's quick spirit smote the lyre;
And, harmonizing earth,

Then music sprang to birth,

And claim'd, so sweet her form, a god to be her sire.

Then the wild man grew tame,
And from the hill-tops came

The shaggy-mantled shepherd with his flocks,—
And, as the minstrel sung,

Old fable found his tongue,

And raised a glittering form on all his rocks.

Is there no hope again, ́
For the high-chanted strain,

That stream'd in beauty then o'er mount and valley wide,— When, from each hill and dell,

Down-brought by minstrel spell,

Bounding, the Muses came, in joy, from every side,

When, taught by spirits choice,
Each forest-thronging voice

Made music of its own for thousand listening ears;
When every flower and leaf

Had its own joy and grief,

And wings ascending came from the less gifted spheres?

Shall the time never more
The old sweet song restore,

That made the stern heart gentle, and to all—

The vicious and the good

The kind of heart and rude

Brought spells that wrapp'd each soul in sweetest thrall?

The sacred groves that then

Show'd spirit-forms to men,

And crown'd high hopes and led to each most lofty shrine, The oracles that wore

Rich robes of mystic lore,

And taught, if not a faith, at least a song, divine :—

Still silent-will they keep

In a cold, death-like sleep,

Nor minister to man, nor soothe him as of old,—
Winning him from his stye

To immortality,

Making each feeling true, making each virtue bold?

Oh, will they not descend,
Sweet spirits, to befriend,

Bring back the ancient muse, bring back the golden lyre,— Teach us the holier good,

Of that more pliant mood,

When self untutor'd came to light affection's fire,—

When, yet untaught to build
In some more favour'd field

His cheerless cabin far from where the rest abode,
He had no thought so free

But his heart yearn'd to be

Bow'd down, with all his tribe, to each domestic god?
Still keeps the sky as fair,
The pleasant moon is there,

And the winds whisper yet, as if upon them borne
Spirits came still to earth,
Happy, as at its birth,

To rove its shadowy walks, now crowded and forlorn.

'Tis man alone is changed

The shepherd-he who ranged

O'er the wild hills, a giant in the sun

His soul and eye aloft,

His bosom strong, but soft,

With spirit, that fresh joy from each new season won.

F

Look on him now-the slave!
Since that sad knowledge gave

The restless thirst that mocks at quiet good;
The innocent joy no more,

That the old forest wore,

Nor yet the charm of song, may soothe his sleepless mood. Power's proud consciousness

How should it ever bless,

When still it prompts a dark and sleepless strife?
A sleepless strife to sway,

And bear that spoil away,

Had been the common stock in his old shepherd life.
Ah, me! would time restore
The ancient faith, the lore

That taught sweet dreams, kind charities and love,
Soothing the spirit's pride,

Bidding the heart confide,

Lifting the hope until its eye grew fix'd above!

Once, once again, the song

That stay'd the arm of wrong,

Once more the sacred strain that charm'd the shepherds rude,―

Send it, sweet spirits!-ye

Who lift man's destiny;

Once more, oh, let it bless our solitude.

Teach us that strife is woe,

The love of lucre low,

And but high hopes and thoughts are worthy in our aim; Teach us that love alone,

Pure love, long heavenward flown, Can bring us that sweet happiness we claim.

And with that sacred lore,

The shepherd loved, once more

Arouse the frolic beat of the hope-licensed heart,-
When, gathering in the grove,

Young maidens sang of love,

And no cold bigot came to chide the minstrel's art.

Then were these teachers still:

This moon, yon quiet hill,

The sea, and more than all, the swelling breeze that brings,

With every hour like this,

A dream of life and bliss,

With healing to the sad heart on its wings.

Then would the chanted strain

Of the old bard again

Bring cheerful thoughts once more around the evening fire;

Then would the pure and young,

Such as the minstrel sung,

Once more rejoice to hear the young earth's infant lyre.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Born at Portland, Maine, 1807.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

THE night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars;

And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above,
A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.