FLOWERS.

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling

towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

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In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold their tender buds expand;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

1 HAVE read, in some old marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Molau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,

The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound.

The river flowed between.

O

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

No other voice nor sound was there,

No drum, nor sentry's pace;

The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,

The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

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Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;

Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvelous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan,
Beleaguer the human soul

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,

In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell

Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled;

Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

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