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A breath to forms which can outlive all flush.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep, — for in itself a though t,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of a mild declivity, the last
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing, — the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself, — but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful;
And both were young, — yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him ; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his siI;ht,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which colored all his objects ; — he had teased
To live within himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously,—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother, —but no more; 't was much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name •
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Horsclf the solitary scion left
Of a time-honored race. It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not, —
and why?

Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved
Another; even nono she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood,
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before

Its walls there was a steed caparisoned;
Within an antique oratory stood
The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
.Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as
't were

With a convulsion, — then arose again,
And with his teoth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears,
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused,
The lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved ; she knew —
For quickly comes such knowledge — that his

Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw

That he was wretched, but she saw not all.

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp

He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face

A tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;

He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,

For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed

From out the massy gate of that old Hall,

And mounting on his steed he went his way;

And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The boy was sprung to manhood ; in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all ; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man,
Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,

Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be ?— she had all she loved,.
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be ?—she had loved him

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind — a specter of the past.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The wanderer was returned. — I saw him stand

Before an altar — with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair, but was not that which made

The starlight of his boyhood; — as he stood

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came

The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock

That in the antique oratory shook

His bosom in its solitude ; and then —

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face

The tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came,

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,

And all things reeled around him; he could

Not that which was, nor that which should have been, —

But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light;
What business had they there at such a time?

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love ;— 0, she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul ! her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own luster, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things,
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth,
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With hatred and contention ; pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains : with the

And the quick Spirit of the universe

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach

To him the magic of their mysteries;

To him the book of Night was opened wide,

And voices from the deep abyss revealed

A marvel and a secret. — Be it so.

My dream was past; it had no further change.

It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out

Almost like a reality, — the one

To end in madness — both in misery.

Lord Byron.


The morning pearls

Dropt in the lily's spotless bosom

Are less chastely cold,

Ere the meridian sun

Has kissed them into heat .

Will Chamberlaynb.


Would Wisdom for herself be wooed,

And wake the foolish from his dream, She must be glad as well as good,

And must not only be but seem.
Beauty and joy are hers by right;

And, knowing this, I wonder less
That she's so scorned, when falsely dight

In misery and ugliness.
What's that which Heaven to man endears,

And that which eyes no sooner see Than the heart says, with floods of tears,

"Ah! that's the thing which I would be"? Not childhood, full of fears and fret;

Not youth, impatient to disown Those visions high which to forget

Were worse than never to have known, — Not these; but souls found here and there,

Oases in our waste of sin,

When everything is well and fair,

And God remits his discipline, Whose sweet subdual of the world

The worldling scarce can recognize; And ridicule, against it hurled,

Drops with a broken sting and dies. They live by law, not like the fool,

But like the bard who freely sings In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule,

And finds in them not bonds but wings.

Coventry Patmore.


For why, who writes such histories as these
Doth often bring the reader's heart such ease,
As when they sit and see what he doth note,
Well fare his heart, say they, this book that wrote!




He that many bokes redys,
Cunnyinge shall he be.
Wysedome is soone caught;
In many leues it is sought:
But slouth, that no boke bought,
For reason taketh no thought;
His thryfte cometh behyude.




Behold, the Fairy cried, Palmyra's ruined palaces ! —

Behold where grandeur frowned!

Behold where pleasure smiled! What now remains ? — the memory

Of senselessness and shame, —

What is immortal there?

Nothing, — it stands to tell

A melancholy tale, to give

An awful warning: soon Oblivion will steal silently

The remnant of its fame.

Monarchs and conquerors there Proud over prostrate millions trod, — The earthquakes of the human race; Like them, forgotten when the ruin

That marks their shock is past .

Beside the eternal Nile

The pyramids have risen. Nile shall pursue his changeless way:

Those pyramids shall fall; Yea, not a stone shall stand to tell

The spot whereon they stood;

Their very site shall be forgotten,
As is their builder's name!

There's not one atom of yon earth

But once was living man;
Nor the minutest drop of rain,
That hangeth in its thinnest cloud,
But flowed in human veins;
And from the burning plains
Where Lybian monsters yell,
From the most gloomy glens
Of Greenland's sunless clime,
To where the golden fields
Of fertile England spread
Their harvest to the day,
Thou canst not find one spot
Whereon no city stood.

How strange is human pride!
I tell thee that those living things,
To whom the fragile blade of grass,
That springoth in the morn
And perishes ere noon,
Is an unbounded world, —
I tell thee that those viewless beings,
Whose mansion is the smallest particle
Of the impassive atmosphere,
Think, feel, and live, like man;
That their affections and antipathies,
Liko his, produce the laws
Ruling their moral state;
And the minutest throb
That through their frame diffuses
The slightest, faintest motion,
Is fixed and indispensable
As the majestic laws
That rule yon rolling orbs.



How fresh, 0 Lord, how sweet and clean

Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;

To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.

Grief melts away

Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shriveled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone

Quite underground; as flowers depart To see their mother root, when they have blown;

Where they together

All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

And now in uge l bud again;

After so many deaths I live and write;

I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: 0 my only light,
It cannot be-
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night!

George Hereert.


A Strakger came one night to Yussouf's tent,
Saying, "Behold one outcast and in dread,
Against whose life the bow of power is bent,
Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head;
I come to thee for shelter and for food,
To Yussouf, called through all our tribes 'The

"This tent is mine," said Yussouf, "but no more

Than it is God's; come in, and be at peace;

Freely shalt thou partake of all my store

As l of His who buildeth over these

Our tents his glorious roof of night and day,

And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay."

So Yussouf entertained his guest that night,
And, waking him ere day, said: "Here is gold,
My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight,
De-part before the prying day grow bold."
As one lamp lights another, nor grows less,
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.

That inward light the stranger's face made grand,
Which shinesfromallself-conquest; kneeling low,
He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf s hand,
Sobbing: "0 Sheik, I cannot leave thee so;
l will repay thee ; all this thou hast done
Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!"

"Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, "for with thee

Into the desert, never to return,
My one black thought shall ride away from me;
First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn,
Balanced and just are all of God's decrees;
Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace!"



The sun comes up and the sun goes down,

And day and night are the same as one;

The year grows green, and the year grows brown,

And what is it all, when all is done?

Grains of somber or shining sand,

Gliding into and out of the hand.

And men go down in ships to the seas,
And a hundred ships are the same as one;
And backward and forward blows the breeze,
And what is it all, when all is done?
A tide with never a shore in sight
Getting steadily on to the night.

The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream,
And what is it all, when all is done?
The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
And alway the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

Harriet Prescott Spoffurd.


There came a man, making his hasty moan
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,
And crying out, "My sorrow is my right,
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night."
"Sorrow," said Mahmoud, "is a reverend thing:
I recognize its right, as king with king;
Speak on." "A fiend has got into my house,"
Exclaimed the staring man, "and tortures us, —
One of thine officers ; he comes, the abhorred,
And takes possession of my house, my board,
My bed ; — I have two daughters and a wife,
And the wild villain comes and makes me mad
with life."

"Is he there now?" said Mahmoud. "No; he left

The house when I did, of my wits bereft,
And laughed me down the street, because I vowed
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his

I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery, And, 0 thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!"

The Sultan comforted the man, and said,
"Go home, and I w ill send thee wine and bread"
(For he was poor) "and other comforts. Go;
And should the wretch return, let Sultan Mah-
moud know."

In three days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,
And shaken voice, the suitor reappeared,
And said, "He's come." Mahmoud said not a

But rose and took four slaves, each with a sword, And went with the vexed man. They reach the place,

And hear a voice, and see a woman's face,
That to the window fluttered in affright:
"Goin," said Mahmoud, " and put out the light;
But tell the females first to leave the room;
And when the drunkard follows them, wc come."
The man went in. There was a cry, and hark!
A table falls, the window is struck dark:
Forth rush the breathless women ; and behind
With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.
In vain : the sabers soon cut short the strife,
And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his
bloody life.

"Now light the light," the Sultan cried aloud:
'T was done : he took it in his hand and bowed
Over the corpse, and looked upon the face;
Then turned and knelt, and to the throne of grace
Put up a prayer, and from his lips there crept
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.

In reverent silence the beholders wait,
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;
And when he had refreshed his noble heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.

The man amazed, all mildness now and tears,
Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers,
And begged him to vouchsafe to tell his slave
The reason first of that command he gave
About the light; then, when he saw the face,
Why he knelt down; and lastly, how it was
That fare so poor as his detained him in the place.

The Sultan said, with a benignant eye,
"Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry,
I could not rid me of a dread, that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine, — ay, e'en perhaps
a son.

For this I had the light put out: but when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thanked the sovereign Arbiter,
Whose work I had performed through pain and

And then I rose and was refreshed with food, The first time since thy voice had marred my solitude."



AnrAM and Zimri owned a field together,—
A level field hid in a happy vale;
They plowed it with one plow, and in the spring
Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful seed.
In harvest, when the glad earth smiled with grain,
Each carried to his home one half the sheaves.
And stored them with much labor in his barns.
Now, Abram had a wife and seven sons,
But Zimri dwelt alone within his honse.

One night, before the sheaves were gathered in,
As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed

And counted in his mind his little gains,
He thought upon his brother Abram's lot,
And said, "I dwell alone within my house,
But Abram hath a wife and seven sons,
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike.
He surely needeth more for life than I;
I will arise, and gird myself, and go
Down to the field, and add to his from mine."

So he arose, and girded up his loins.
And went out softly to the level field;
The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds,
The trees stood black against the cold blue sky,
The branches waved and whispered in the wind.
So Zimri, guided by the shifting light,
Went down the mountain path, and found the

Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And Iiore them gladly to his brother's heap,
And then went back to sleep and happy dreams.

Now, that same night, as Abram lay in bed,
Thinking upon his blissful state in life,
He thought upon his brother Zimri's lot,
And said, "He dwells within his house alone,
He goeth forth to toil with few to help,
He goeth home at night to a cold house,
And hath few other friends but me and mine"
(For these two tilled the happy vale alone),
"While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly

Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons,
Who aid me in my toil and make it light,
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike.
This surely is not pleasing unto God;
I will arise, and gird myself, and go
Out to the field, and borrow from my store,
And add unto my brother Zimri's pile."

So he arose and girded up his loins,
And went down softly to the level field;
The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds,
The trees stood blank against the starry sky,
The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze.
So Abram, guided by the doubtful light,
Passed down the mountain path and found the

Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And added them unto his brother's heap;
Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.

So the next morning with the early sun
The brothers rose, and went out to their toil;
And when they came to see the heavy sheaves,
Each wondered in his heart to find his heap,
Though he had given a third, was still tho same.

Now, the next night went Zimri to the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous share,

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