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The thoughts that rain their steady glow

Like stars on life's cold sea,
Which others know, or say they know—

They never shone for me.
Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit's sky,

But they will not remain:
They light me once, they hurry by,

And Dever come again.

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Time has laid his hand Upon my head gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations!


Moon Rise.

A mighty purpose rises large and slow
From out the fluctuations of my soul,
As, ghost-like, from the dim and tumbling sea
Starts the completed moon.

Alexander Smith.

The Lot Of Love.

Oh! was there ever tale of human love,
Which was not also tale of human tears?
Died not sweet Desdemona? sorrow'd not
Fair, patient Imogen? and she whose name
Lives among lovers, Sappho silver-voiced,
Was not the wailing of her passionate lyre
Ended for ever in the dull deaf sea?
Must it be thus? oh! must the cup that holds
The sweetest vintage of the vine of life
Taste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,
No legend, no love passage, which shall end
Even as the bow that God hath bent in heaven,
O'er the sad waste of mortal histories,
Promising respite to the rain of tears?

Matthew Abnoli>.

By Edgar A. Poe.

In the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—

Radiant palace—rear'd its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion—

It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow,
(This—all this—was in the olden

Time lonu: ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odour went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate,

(Ah, let us mourn!—for never sorrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)

And round about his home the glory
That blush'd and bloom'd,

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,

Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically

To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out for ever

And laugh—but smile no more.

By Charles Swain.

Oh, govern your temper! for music the sweetest

Was never so sweet—nor one half so divine— As a heart kept in tune, which the moment thou greetest

Breathes harmony dearer than notes can combine. Never say it is nature, and may not be cured;

One tithe of the time which to music we yield, Would render the conquest of temper insured,

And bring us more music than song e'er reveal'd.

Oh, govern your temper! for roses the fairest

Were never so fair, nor so rich in perfume, As the flowers which e'en thou, chilly Winter, yet sparest,

The flowers of the heart, which unchangingly bloom! Never say it is nature,—for oh, if it were,

The sooner the spirit of nature is shown That the spirit of heaven is higher than her,

The sooner—the longer—will love be our own.

By Gerald Massey.

All in a marriage garden

Grew smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever

Suck'd the green warmth of the sod.
O beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurl'd,
Life's crown of sweetness was our wee

White Rose of all the world.

From out a gracious bosom

Our bud of beauty grew; It fed on smiles for sunshine,

And tears for dainties dew. Aye nestling warm and tenderly

On leaves of love were curl'd, So close and close about our wee

White Hose of all the world.

Two flowers of glorious crimson

Grew with our Rose of light;
Still kept the sweet heaven grafted slip

Her whiteness saintly white:
I' the wind of life they danced with glee,

And redden'd as they whirled; White, white, and wondrous grew our wee

White Rose of all the world.

With mystical faint fragrance,

Our house of life she fill'd, Reveal'd each hour some fairy tower

Where wing'd hopes might build. We saw—though none like us might see

Such precious promise pearl'd Upon the petals of our wee

White Rose of all the world..

But evermore the halo

Of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of Moonlight

That folds some fairy feast,

Snow-white, snow-frost, snow-silently,

Our darling bird up curl'd,
And dropt i' the grave—God's lap—our wee

White Rose of all the world.

Our Rose was but in blossom—

Our life was but in spring;
When down the solemn midnight

We heard the spirit's ring.
"Another bud of infancy,

With holy dews impearl'd;"
And in their hands they bore our wee

White Rose of all the world.

You scarce could think so small a thing

Could leave a loss so large:
Her little light such shadow fling

From dawn to sunset's marge.
In other springs our life may be

In banner'd bloom unfurl'd;
But, never, never match our wee

White Rose of all the world.


A passage from a poem found in a recently published volume, eniitlcd First Fruits, by E. H. R. There is true poetry in it.

The torrent of the world is rough and strong,

No eyes with loving tendernesses glisten, I cannot sing a truth-inspiring song

If none on earth will listen.

The angel answer'd: Wherefore dost thou sigh?

The courser faints not ere his race be run— The meanest blossom may not, cannot die

Before its work be done.


The prayer-bells in thy heart should summon still
The world all day, at noon, at eve, at dawning,
And not like yonder church upon the hill,

Only on Sunday morning.

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