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Of a past night, and a far different scene.
Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep
As clearly as at noon;

The spring-tide's brimming flow
Heaved dazzlingly between;
Houses, with long white sweep,

Girdled the glistening bay;

Behind, through the soft air,

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The freshening wind and blackening waves. And then the tempest strikes him; and be tween

The lightning-bursts is seen

Only a driving wreck,

The blue haze-cradled mountains spread And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck

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With anguished face and flying hair,
Grasping the rudder hard,

Still bent to make some port, he knows not

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Is there no life, but these alone? Madman or slave, must man be one?

Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain!

Clearness divine!

Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign

Of languor, though so calm, and though so great

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Ah! well for us, if even we,

Are yet untroubled and unpassionate; Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil,

And, though so tasked, keep free from dust

and soil!

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LIGHT flows our war of mocking words; and yet,

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne;
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes ou mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost
soul.

Alas! is even love too weak

ΤΟ

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How frivolous a baby man would be,
By what distractions he would be possessed,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity,-
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our
breast

The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see

The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

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But often, in the world's most crowded streets,

But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course; 50
A longing to inquire

Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us, to know
Whence our lives come, and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then
delves,

But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and

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But they course on forever unexpressed.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well- - but 't is not true!
And then we will no more be racked
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;

Ah, yes, and they benumb us at our call!

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Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day's employ.

Here at my feet what wonders pass!
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear.

Scarce fresher is the mountain sod
Where the tired angler lies, stretched out,
And, eased of basket and of rod,

Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. æ

In the huge world which roars hard by,
Be others happy if they can !
But in my helpless cradle I
Was breathed on by the rural Pan.

I, on men's impious uproar hurled,
Think often, as I hear them rave,
That peace has left the upper world,
And now keeps only in the grave.

Yet here is peace forever new!
When I who watch them am away,
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day.

Then to their happy rest they pass;
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,
The night comes down upon the grass,
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.

Calm soul of all things! make it mine
To feel, amid the city's jar,
That there abides a peace of thine,
Man did not make, and cannot mar.

The will to neither strive nor ery, The power to feel with others, give! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.

THE FUTURE

A WANDERER is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship

On the breast of the river of Time;
Brimming with wonder and joy,
He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been Whether he wakes

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Of the lands which the river of Time
Had left ere he woke on its breast,
Or shall reach when his eves have been closed.
Only the tract where he sails
He wots of; only the thoughts,
Raised by the objects he passes, are his.

Who can see the green earth any more
As she was by the sources of Time ?
Who imagines her fields as they lay
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? 30
Who thinks as they thought,

The tribes who then roamed on her breast,
Her vigorous, primitive sons?

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