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I many strange and gentile lands, Micah v. S.

Where Jacob's scattered sons are driven, Jer. xxiii. 8.

With longing eyes and lifted hands, Lam. i. 17.

They wait Messiah's sign from heaven. Matt. xxiv. 30.

Thp cup of fury they have quaffed, Isa. II. 17.

Till fainted like a weary flock: Isa. 11. 20.
But Heaven will soon withdraw the

draught, Isa. li. 22.

And give them waters from the rock. Exod. xvii. 6.

What though their bodies, as the ground, Isa. li. 23.

TV Assyrian long has trodden o'er 1 Isa. lii. 4.

Zion, a captive daughter bound, Isa. lii. 2.

Shall ris4 to know her wrong no more. Isa liv. 3, 4.

The veil is passing from her eyes, 2 Cor. iii. 16.

The King of Nations she shall see; Zech. xiv. 9.

J odea! from the dust arise! Isa. lii. 2.

Thy ransomed sons return to thee! Jer. xxxi. 17.

How gorgeous shall thy land appear, Isa. liv. 12.

When, like the jewels uf a bride, Isa. xlix. 18.

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When on thy mount . as prophets taught, Isa. xxlv. 23.

Shall shine the throne of David's son; Eeek. xxxvii. 22.

The Gospel's latest triumphs brought, Micah lv. 2.

Where first its glorious course begun. Luke xxiv. 47.

Gentiles and kings who thee oppressed, Isa. lx. 14.

Shall to thy gates with praise repair; Isa. Ix. 11.

A fold of flocks shall Sharon rest, Isa, lxv. 10.

And clustered fruits its vineyards bear. Joel ii. 22.

Then shall an Eden morn illume Isa. 1. 3.

Earth's fruitful vales, without a thorn: Isa. lv. 13.

The wilderness rejoice and bloom, Isa. xxxv. 1.

And nations in a day be born. Zech. ii. 11.

The Lord his holy arm makes bare; Isa. lii. 10.

Zion! thy cheerful songs employ! Zeph. iii. 14.

Thy robes of bridal beauty wear, Isa, lii. 1.

And shout, ye ransomed race, for joy 1 Isa. lii. 9.

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Hen, like a sullen exile

driven forth, Southward December drags

his icy chain, He graves fair pictures of his

native North On the crisp window-pane.

So some pale captive blurs

with lips unshorn The latticed glass, and shapes

rude outlines there.
With listless finger, and a look

forlorn,
Cheating his dull despair.

The fairy fragments of some Arctic scene

I see to-night; blank wastes of polar snow, Ice-laden boughs, and feathery pines that lean Over ravines below.

Black frozen lakes, and icy peaks blown bare,

Break the white surface of the crusted pane; And spear-like leaves, long ferns, and blossoms fair, Linked in a silvery chain.

The she-bear rears her young, and cliffs so 1 lark-winged bird Melt through the pale t

ung, and cliffs so high emulate their rise ti blue sky.

There, all night long, with far-diverging rays, And stalking shades, the red Auroras glow; From the keen heaven, mock suns with pallid Light up the Arctic snow.

Guide me, I pray, along those waves remote, That deep unstartled from its primal rest; Some errant sail, the fisher's lone light boat, Borne waif-like on its breast I

'Lead mo, I pray, where never shallop's keel

Brake the dull ripples throbbing to their caves; Where the mailed glacier with his armed heel Sport the resisting waves I

Paint me, I pray, tho phantom hosts that hold Celestial tourneys when the midnight calls; On airy steeds, with lances bright and bold, Storming her ancient halls I

Yet, while I look the magic picture fades;

Melts the bright tracery from the frosted pane;

Trees, vales, and cliffs, in sparkling snows arrayed, Dissolve in silvery rain.

Without, the day's pale glories sink and swell

Over the black rise of yon wooded height; The moon's thin crescent, like a stranded shell, Left on the shores of night.

Hark! how the north wind, with a hasty hand

Rattling my casement, frames his mystio rhyme. House thee, rude minstrel, chanting through the land Runes of the olden time!

THE POET OF TO-DAY.

BY GBACB GREENWOOD.

What siren-joys from thy high trust hath won thee,

Oh Poet of to-day 7—thou still unheard,
Though struggling nations cast their eyes upon thee

And the roused world is waiting for thy word I

Why lingerest thou amid the summer places,
The gardens of romance, the haunt of dreams,

'Hid verdurous shadows, lit by fairy faces,
And fitful playing of soft, golden gleams?

There have thy fiery thoughts and hopes betaken
To still delights, and loneliness, and rest,

Thy life to quiet gliding, lest it waken
The languid lilies sleeping on its breast

The rudest wind which comes where thou art lying,
Listening the chiming waters as they flow,

May scarcely set tho mournful pines a-sighing,
Or shake down rose-leaves on thy dreaming brow.

Arouse I look up, to where above thee tower

Regions of being grander, freer, higher, Where God reveals His presence and His power

E'en as of old, in thunders and in fire.

Then stray no longer in the valleys vernal—
Ascend where darkness and great lights belong,

Sunshine and tempest—scale the heights eternal,
Go forth and tread the mountain-paths of song t

From those far summits shall thy thought's clear voicing
Fall like the sweep of torrents on the world;

Thy lays speed forth, exultant and rejoicing,
Their eagle pinions on the winds unfurled.

Ah, when the soul of ancient song was blending
With the rapt bard's in his immortal strains,

Twas like the wine drank on Olympus, sending
Divine intoxication through the veins.

H brought strange, charmed words and magic singing,
And forms of beauty burning on the sight—

Young loves their flight through airs ambrosial winging, And dark-browed heroes arming for the fight—

The trumpet's " golden cry,"—the shield's quick flashing— The dance of banners and the rush of war—

Death-showers of arrows and the spear's sharp clashing— The homeward rolling of the victor's car I

But ah I in all that song's heroic story

Had sad Humanity one briefest part? Sounds through the clang of words, the storm, the glory,

One sharp, strong cry from out her bleeding heart?

But unto thee the soul of song is given

Oh Poet of today! a grander dower
Comes from a higher than the Olympian heaven,

In holier beauty and in larger power.

To thee Humanity her woes revealing,
Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse;

Would make thy song the voice of her appealing,
And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse.

While in her season of great darkness sharing,
Hail thou the coming of each promise-star

Which climbs the midnight of her long despairing,
And watch for morning o'er the hills afar.

Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages,
Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard;

Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages,
The human utterance of God's living word.

But bring not thou the battle's stormy chorus,
The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight,

Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us,
Nor blase of pillage, reddening up the night.

Oh! let thy lays prolong that angel-singing,

Girdling with music the Redeemer's star, And breathe God's peace, to earth M glad tidings" bringing

From the near heavens, of old so dim and far.

THE POET-MARTYR.

BY JOHN 8. DU SOLLE.

"Le poete eat homme par les sans,

Homme par la douleur!

L'argile perissable oQ tant d'ame palplte,
Se faconne plus belle, et ie brise plus vite;
Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel;
Cest un Dlea dont le poids dolt ecraser l'autel;
Cest an souffle trop pleiu du solr ou de l'aurore,
Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore,
Mais, qui brise de son, le jette au bord de l'eau,
Comme un chaume seche battu sous le fleau!"

Lahabthtb.

Thou dark-eyed, pensive, passionate Child of Song 1
Enthusiast! Dreamer I Worshipper of things

By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng
Of beautiful creations Nature flings
The sunlight of existence on!

The wings

Of the rude tempest are not half so strong
As thy proud hopes and wild imaginings:
Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight
Reach a too-dazxiing height:

So venturing sunward, that the flashing eye
Of Reason, grown deliriously bright,

Kindle to Madness and to Idiocy I
And from excessive light,

To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night I

Stop I whilst the ruby fount of Life Goes bubbling onward, hurtless, through thy vein?;

While yet the glorious, but capricious strife Of Being is uncertain: while the stains

That Sin and Sorrow rust into the soul
Touch but the surface only, not the whole.

Stop! whilst to Memory earth is still so dear—
And hath a thousand ties—and is not all
One sad, unvarying, spirit-wounding sphere—

Whilst Hope still smiles at thy so-frequent call,
And the dim Future comes
Peopled with tiny faces, and the forms
Of angel loved-ones, that, with outstretched arms,

Beckon thy spirit to their sunny homes I

Stop! if thou'dbt live.

Or, hath Life left for thee

No charms, that thou its last, terrific scene
Shouldst with such passion worship?

Can It be

That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win?
No gem? no flower? no loveliness unseen?
No wonder unexplored? no mystery
Still undeveloped to the eagle eye
Of Genius or of Poesy?
Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea?

Its peopling millions? its gigantic chain
Of gorgeous, glittering waters, wild as free?

Where the big-orbed Sun? the blue-veiled sky, With its magnificent, diamond-glistening train Of ever-burning stars?

It may not be,

(Thou fond Idolater at every fane

Where beauty lingers), may not be that thou Hast treasured up Earth's precious things, till now Thou deem'st it vain to turn,

Some unfamiliar object to discern;
And so,

Her loveliest features unregarded go I
Away, proud thought I such boastings ne'er were thine—
Since in the meanest, humblest flower that grows,
E'en in thy life-breath, as it comes and goes,
There are a thousand things whose origin,
Whose secret springs, whose impulses divine,
No huxmin art nor wisdom can disclose I

Stop!—I conjure thee—

Bid the Muse away!

Her fatal gift cast from thee or resign,—

And her proud mandate heed not nor obey 1 E'en now thy brow hath Sorrow's pallid sign—

Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering ray Of " a stray sunbeam o'er some ruined shrine"— Lighting up vestiges, almost divine,

In sad, yet dimly-beautiful decay.

Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle play Of the faint smile that curls thy parted lip,

Hath something fearful in it, though so gay— A something treacherously calm and deepSuch as on sunny waters seems to sleep

When, hid beneath some passing shadow's gray,

The subtle Storm-Fiend watches for bis prey!

Stop! melancholy youth:
Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song,
And many a sunbeam o'er its waters dance
Meanderingly along:
Though it be Heaven to quaff of; yet. In truth,
A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse,
More deep, more strong,
Than to the subtlest poison doth belong!
A very demon haunts its golden air 1
Infatuating with his serpent glance
The wanderer there;
And, with a sad but most bewitching smile,

Wooing the while
The fond and credulous one to his desire,
With burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire,
With its own strength enkindles its own funeraJ pyre!

Stop! ifthou'dst live then-
Stop! or e'er thy flight
Reach a too-dazsling height:
Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye
Of Reason, grown deliriously bright,
Kindle to Madness and to Idiocy—
And, from excessive light
To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!

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