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judgment. You must give your time and your at POEMS BY CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. tention. You must descend to the trouble of examination. You must rise from the repose of con

THE SOUL-FLOWER. templation, and make yourself acquainted with the objects of your benevolent exercises. Will he hus. I dreamed of a Flower that bloomed in the ocean, band your charity with care, or will he squander it Far down-all alone, away in idleness and dissipation? Will he satisfy So deep, there was not a sound or motion, himself with the brutal luxury of the moment, and Nor a sea-beast's ear to catch the groan neglect the supply of his more substantial necessi Of the upper sea in its strife. ties, or suffer his children to be trained in ignorance The green waves were noiseless and harmless as and depravity? Will charity corrupt him by lazi sleep. ness ? What is his peculiar necessity? Is it the want And a dim light struggled to pierce the deep, of health or the want of employment? Is it the pres But all was cold and shadowless, sure of a numerous family? Does he need medicine And all was void and motionless, to administer to the diseases of his children? Does

For here there was no LIFE, he need fuel or raiment to protect them from the in

Saving of this one flower. clemency of winter ? Does he need money to satisfy

O'twas a starlike thing, the yearly demands of his landlord, or to purchase A vision of calm, undying power ; books and to pay for the education of his offspring ? Bell-like and deep, like an urn of pearl, To give money is not to do all the work and la

With anthers all golden and glittering, bour of benevolence. You must go to the poor And slowly its petals of white did unfurl; man's bed. You must lend your hand to the work A marble flower, yet living and growing; of assistance. You must examine his accounts. You Sweet and pure as a seraph's dream. must try to recover those debts which are due to his O dim are the diamond and ruby's gleam, family. You must try to recover those wages which

And the myriad gems that are glowing, are detained by the injuries or the rapacity of his When I think on the light of this lonely flower, master. You must employ your mediation with his Far down in its silent and dim sea-bower. superiors. You must represent to them the necessi The storms of the upper waves raged on, ties of his situation. You must solicit their assist

But here was no tempest or noise to dread; ance, and awaken their feelings to the tale of his Huge wrecks and bodies of men came down, calamity. This is benevolence in its plain, and But they hung drifting far over head, sober, and substantial reality, though eloquence They sank not down to the sacred bower may have withheld its imagery, and poetry may Where bloomed the peaceful ocean-flower. have denied its graces and its embellishments. This The sea-snake and whale in their giant race, is true and unsophisticated goodness. It may be re Were lost when they sought for this lonely corded in no earthly documents; but if done under

place, the influence of Christian principle-in a word, And all the bright-colored things that gleam done unto Jesus, it is written in the book of heaven, And dart through the deep, were like meteors and will give a new lustre to that crown to which his

that stream disciples look forward in time, and will wear through Through a summer sky; while the sea-stars eternity.

shone,

Some in clusters, and some alone,
RECOMPENSE.

Whose far off twinklings feebly sent
A light through the vast dim element.

BY W. G. SIMS.

Not profitless the game, even though we lose;

Nor wanting in reward the thankless toil : The wild adventure that the man pursues

Requites him, though he gathers not the spoil : Strength follows labour, and its exercise

Brings Independence-fearlessness of illCourage and pride-all attributes we prize

Though their fruits fail, not the less valued still. Though fame withholds the trophy of desire,

And men deny, and the impatient throng
Grows heedless, and the strains, protracted, tire-

Not wholy vain the minstrel and the song,
If, striving to arouse one heavenly tone
In others' hearts, it wakens up his own.

And I know whenever this dream comes back,

That there is a flower like this, on earth;

It hath not here its place of birth,
And seldom may we track

The path that leads to the inner shrine

Where its glories spread and shine.
Yet ye need not roam from star to star;
Ye need not seek this flower afar;
It blooms deep down in the human heart;
It hath no peer in the pride of art,
It blooms in the breast of the wise and pure,

But withers a sinful heart within,
For its amaranth beauty cannot endure

The blighting atmosphere of sin.

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To be ever uttering,

Babbling and muttering? Thou canst never tell the whole

Of thine unmanageable Soul. Deeper than thy deepest speech,

Wiser than thy wisest thought, Something lies thou canst not reach,

Never to the surface brought.

And Jove—the serene air, hath thundered,
As when by old Prometheus,
The lightening stolen for our use
From out his sky was plundered !
Man to his Soul draws near,
And Silence now hath all to fear ;

Her realm is invaded,

Her temples degraded For Eloquence like a strong and turbid river Is flowing through her cities. On for ever The mighty waves are dashing, and the sound Disturbs the Deities profound.

God through man is speaking,

And hearts and souls are waking.
Each to each his visions tells,
And all rings out like a chime of bells;
The Word, THE word, thou hast it now!

Silence befits the gods above,
But Speech is the star on manhood's brow,

The sign of truth-the sign of love.

Masses without form or make,
Sleeping gromes that never wake;
Genii bound by magic spells;
Fairies and all miracles ;
Shapes unclassed and wonderful,
Huge and dire and beautiful ;
Dreams and hopes and prophecies
Struggling to ope their eyes;
All that is most vast and dim,
All that is most good and bad,
Demon, sprite and cherubim,
Spectral troops and angels glad;
Things that stir not, yet are living,
Up to the light for ever striving ;
Thoughts whose faces are averted,
Guesses dwelling in the dark;
Instincts not to be diverted
From their ever-present mark-
Such thy inner Lise, O Man,
Which no outward eye may scan,
Wonderful, most wonderful,
Terrible and beautiful !
Speak not, argue not-but live!
Reins to thy true nature give,
And in each unconscious act
Forth will shine the hidden fact.
Yet this smooth surface thou must break;
Thou must give as well as take.

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Why this Silence long and deep? Dost thou wake or dost thou sleep ? Up and speak-persuade and teach! What so beautiful as Speech?

Sing us the old Song,

Be our warbling bird; Thou hast sealed thy lips too long And the world must all go wrong,

If it hath no spoken word.

That glorious strain !

O, from my brain
I see the shadows fitting like scared ghosts!

A light, a light

Shines in to-night,
O'er the good angels trooping to their posts,-

And the black cloud is rent in twain
Before the ascending strain.

Out with it—thou hast it!
We would feel it, taste it.
Be our Delphic Oracle,
Let the Memnon statue sing,
Let the music rise and swell;

We will enter the ring
Where the silent ones dwell,
And we will compel

The Powers that we seek Through us to sing, through us to speak.

And hark! A pollo's lyre!
Young Mercury with words of fire !

It dies away,

It would not stay, So sweet, so fleeting ; yet to me it spake

Strange peace of mind

I could not find,
Before that lofty strain the silence brake.

So let it ever come to me
With an undying harmony.

FIELD NOTES.

Where is he that loves the woods, At home in all green solitudes; He whom fashion, fame, or pelf Have not prisoned in himself, He who leaveth friend and book, And findeth both beside a brook ; Heareth wisdom musical In a low-toned waterfall, Or the pine grove's breezy rush, Or the trilling of a thrush, Or, when nights are dark and still, In a plaintive whip-poor-will; Or when morning suns are bright, Seeth truths of quiet light In the landscape green and warm Of the sloping up and farm ! Let him come and be my friend Till these summer months shall end.

In this leafy sylvan scene, Where nature loves no hue but green, Nor will let a sound be heard But of humble-bee or bird, Or a tall and spreading tree Rustling still and lonesomely, Or afar the cattle's bell, Tinkling in some hidden dell, We will leave house, man, and street, For companionship more sweet : Children of the summer air, We will be as once we were, Two unconscious idle boys, And renew Arcadian joys; Stumbling in our hill-side walks O'er mushrooms and mullein stalks ; Brushing with our feet away Spider-webs of silken gray, Gemmed with dew athwart the meadows, That sleep in the long morning shadows; Roaming by some grassy stream, Where, as in some earlier dream, Well-known flowers all tall and rank Blossom on the marshy bank; Vines that creep, and spikes that nod, Golden-helmet, golden-rod, Orchis, milk-weed, elder-bloom, Brake, sweet-fern and meadow.broom, Star-shaped mosses on the rocks, Golden-butter cups in flocks, Tossing as the breeze sweeps by To the blue deeps of the sky; All those scentless seedy flowers That chronicle the summer hours; These shall be our company. The soliloquizing bee Hath no need of such as we : We will let hin wander free; He must labor hotly yet, Ere the summer sun shall set.

Grumbling little merchant man, Deft Utilitarian, Dunning all the idle flowers, Short to him must be the hours, As he steereth swiftly over Fields of warm sweet-scented clover. Leave him to his own delight, Little insect Benthamite : Idler like ourselves alone Shall we woo to be our crone. But for him whose cloudy looks Are bent on law or ledger-books, Prisoned among the heated bricks, The slave of traffic, toil and tricks; For him who worshippeth alone Beneath the drowsy preacher’s drone, Where creed and text like fetters cling Upon the spirit's struggling wing ; For him whom Fashion's laws have tamed, Till the sweet heavens are nigh ashamed To lead him from his poisoned food Into their healthy solitude ; Such as these we leave behind, Blind companions of the blind. Little know they of the balm, And the beauty, wise and calm, Treasured up at Nature's breast, For the sick heart that needeth rest. He who in childlike love hath quaffed Of her sweet mother-milk one draught Hath drank immortal drops as bright As those which (tales of eld recite) Untasted fell one starry night From the fair bosom of heaven's queen Sprinkling the sky with milky sheen : From the world's tasteless springs he turns; His soul with thirst diviner burns, And nursed upon the lap of Truth, Wins once again the gift of youth. Him we will seek, and none but him, Whose inward sense hath not grown dim; Whose soul is steeped in Nature's tinct, And to the Universal linked ; Who loves the beauteous Infinite With deep and ever new delight, And carrieth where'er he goes, The inborn sweetness of the rose, The perfume as of Paradise; The talisman above all price; The optic glass that wins from far The meaning of the utmost star; The key that opes the golden doors Where earth and heaven have piled their stores; The magic ring—the enchanter's wandThe title-deed to Wonder-land; The wisdom that o'erlooketh sense, The clairvoyance of Innocence. These rich possessions if he own, He shall be ours, and he alone.

THE POET.

And these he loves ;-and with all these the heart Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.-SENECA.

Of frail humanity, which like a tremulous harp

Hung in the winds, not oft from storms apart, He that would earn the Poet's sacred name,

Sobs or rejoices; and when tempests sharp Must write for future as for present ages;

Sweep the tense strings, a "sweet sad music” hears, Must learn to scorn the wreath of vulgar fame,

Where others list no voice, nor heed the dropping And bear to see cold critics o'er the pages

tears. His burning brain hath wrought, wreak wantonly Their dull and crabbed spite, or trifling mockery.

Who scorns the Poet's art, deserves the scorn

Which he would heap on others' heads; that man He must not fret his heart that men will turn Knows not the sacred gift and calling born From the deep wealth his soul hath freely given;

Within the Poet's soul when life began :He must not marvel that their spirits burn Knows not that he must speak, and not for fame,

With fire so dim and cold. The God of Heaven But that his heart would wither else within its flame. Who hung the golden stars in loftiest sky, Hath o'er all spirits set the Poet's heart on high.

Time's wreaths await him : far in future ages,

Twined in their amaranth beauty they are Star-like and high, his task and glorious sphere

shining, Is to shine on in love and light unborrowed, And blessings rained upon his fragrant pages, Yet looking down, to hold all nature dear,

And tears from kindred hearts, quenching reAnd where a heart hath deeply joyed or sorrowed,

pining To gather to itself all images

With a warm sympathy, and smiles of joy Of mind, and heart and passion, and to breathe life Embalm a sacred life which Time cannot destroy.

through these : And in this life, burning through all his words,

THE OCEAN. And glancing back so strangely on man's soul

“In a season of calm weather, The image of himself, the bard records

Though inland far we be, The power which lists all nature, till the whole

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

That brought us hither, Swims in the spirit of beauty, and the breath

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore, Of earthly things is murmuring life untouched by

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore." death.

WORDSWORTH. Thus hovering, bee-winged, over every flower,

Tell me, brother, what are we?And gathering all the nectar from its blossom,

Spirits bathing in the sea And e'en midst broken hearts, in grief's dark hour,

Of Deity! Stealing a sweetness from the poison bosom,

Half afloat and half on land, He garners up the honey of his thought,

Wishing much to leave the strand, And yields unto the world what'er his soul hath Standing, gazing with devotion, wrought.

Yet afraid to trust the Ocean-

Such are we.
His is the task to clothe the dull and cominon
In the rich garb of ever-living youth;

Wanting love and holiness
And o'er the soul of child, or man, or woman,

To enjoy the wave's caress; And o'er the countenance of daily truth,

Wanting faith and heavenly hope, And o'er Creation's face to spread the light

Buoyantly to bear us up; Of beauty, as it shines in God's eternal sight.

Yet impatient in our dwelling,

When we hear the ocean swelling. He may not stoop to pander to the herd

And in every wave that rolls Of fickle tastes and morbid appetites ;

We behold the happy souls He hath upon his lips a holy word,

Peacefully, triumphantly And he must heed not if it cheers or blights,

Swimming on the smiling sea, So it be Truth, and the deep earnest fire

Then we linger round the shore, Of no dull earthward thought, nor any base desire,

Lovers of the earth no more. His path is through all nature like the sun;

Once,--'twas in our infancy, From world to world, like a recording spirit;

We were drifted by this sea And with all shapes and hues his heart is one ;

To the coast of human birth, And if a bird but sing, his ear must hear it,

To this body and this earth: And the coarse, scentless flower is as a brother,

Gentle were the hands that bore And the green turf the gentle bosom of a mother.

Our young spirits to the shore;

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