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And deeper than the sound of seas, more soft than falling

flake,

Amidst the hush of wing and song the voice Eternal spake :

"Welcome, my angels! ye have brought a holier joy to heaven; Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the song of sin forgiven!"

William Wouter

ORGIA. .

(A SONG OF RUIN.)

Who cares for nothing alone is free.

Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me!

With a careless heart and a merry eye,

He will laugh at the world as the world goes by.

He laughs at power and wealth and fame;

He laughs at virtue, he laughs at shame;

He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear,
And at memory's dead leaves crisp and sere:

He laughs at the future, cold and dim,—
Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him.

O that is the comrade fit for me:

He cares for nothing, his soul is free,

Free as the soul of the fragrant wine:
Sit down, good fellow-my heart is thine.

For I heed not custom, creed, nor law;

I care for nothing that ever I saw.

In every city my cups I quaff,

And over my liquor I riot and laugh.

I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave;

I laugh at the church and I laugh at the grave.

I laugh at joy, and well I know

That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe.

I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer,
When I think that the hour of death draws near.

For I know that Death is a guest divine,
Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine.

And he cares for nothing! A king is he!
Come on, old fellow, and drink with me!

With you I will drink to the solemn Past, Though the cup that I drain should be my last.

I will drink to the phantoms of love and truth; To ruined manhood and wasted youth.

I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe, In the diamond morning of Long Ago;

To a heavenly face, in sweet repose;

To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose;

To the splendor, caught from orient skies,
That thrilled in the dark of her hazel eyes,-

Her large eyes wild with the fire of the south,
And the dewy wine of her warm red mouth.

I will drink to the thought of a better time;
To innocence, gone like a death-bell chime.

I will drink to the shadow of coming doom;
To the phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb.

I will drink to my soul in its terrible mood,
Dimly and solemnly understood.

And, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin,

Who has conquered that fortress and reigns within.

My sight is fading,-it dies away,—

I cannot tell,—is it night or day?

My heart is burnt and blackened with pain,
And a horrible darkness crushes my brain.

I cannot see you. The end is nigh,
But we'll laugh together before I die.

Through awful chasms I plunge and fall!
Your hand, good fellow! I die,-that's all.

THE CHIEFTAIN.

READ AT THE ATLANTIC FESTIVAL IN COMMEMORATION

OF THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, AT THE HOTEL BRUNSWICK, BOSTON, DEC. 3D, 1879.

If that glad song had ebbed away,

Which, rippling on through smiles and tears,
Has bathed with showers of diamond spray
The rosy fields of seventy years,—

If that sweet voice were hushed to-day,
What should we say?

1

At first we thought him but a jest,
A ray of laughter, quick to fade;
We did not dream how richly blest
In his pure life our lives were made:
Till soon the aureole shone confest
Upon his crest.

When voices fade the roses blow;
When laughter dies the passions wake:
His royal song, that slept below

Like Arthur's sword beneath the lake, Long since has flashed its fiery glow O'er all we know.

That song has poured its sacred light
On crimson flags in freedom's van,
And blessed their serried ranks, who fight
Life's battle here for truth and man-
An oriflamme, to cheer the Right
Through darkest night!

That song has flecked with rosy gold
The sails that fade o'er fancy's sea;

Relumed the storied days of old;

Presaged the glorious life to be; And many a sorrowing heart consoled, In grief untold.

When, shattered on the loftiest steep
The statesman's glory ever found,
That heart so like the boundless deep
Broke, in the deep no heart can bound,
How did his dirge of sorrow weep
O'er Webster's sleep!

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