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BLIND BARTIMEUS. BLIND Bartimeus at the gates
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands Of Jericho in darkness waits ;
The crowd, “What wilt thou at my He hears the crowd ;-he hears a breath bands?" Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth !” And he replies, “O give me light ! And calls in tones of agony,
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight !" 'Ingrī, iaénoór yes !
And Jesus answers, 'Trays'
“Η πίστις σου σέσωκί σε!
| 'H ziotis cou riowxí es !
THE GOBLET OF LIFE.
Nor prize the coloured waters less,
| For in thy darkness and distress With solemn voice and slow.
New light and strength they give ! No purple flowers, -no garlands green,
And he who has not learned to know Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, How false its sparkling bubbles show, Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, How bitter are the drops of woe, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between With which its brim may overflow, Thick leaves of mistletoe.
He has not learned to live. This goblet, wrought with curious art,
The prayer of Ajax was for light; Is filled with waters, that upstart,
Through all that dark and desperate fight, When the deep fountains of the heart, The blackness of that noonday night, By strong convulsions rent apart, He asked but the return of sight, Are running all to waste.
To see his foemans face.
One half the human race.
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Patient, though sorely tried ! It gave new strength, and fearless mood; I pledge you in this cup of grief, And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf, Mingled it in their daily food;
The Battle of our Life is brief, And he who battled and subdued, The alarm,—the struggle,- the relief,A wreath of fennel wore.
Then sleep we side by side.
Life hath quick sands,-Life bath snares !
Morning rises into noon, As the braided streamlets run !
May glides onward into June. Standing, with reluctant feet,
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Where the brook and river meet, | Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gazing, with a timid glance,
Gather, then, each flower that grows, On the brooklet's swift advance, When the young heart overflows, On the river's broad expanse !
| To embalm that tent of snows. Deep and still, that gliding stream Bear a lily in thy hand; Beautiful to thee must seem,
Gates of brass cannot withstand As the river of a dream.
One touch of that magic wand. Then why pause with indecision, Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, When bright angels in thy vision
In thy heart the dew of youth, Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?
On thy lips the smile of truth. Seest thou shadows sailing by,
0, that dew, like balm, shall steal As the dove, with startled eye,
Into wounds, that cannot heal, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; Hearest thou voices on the shore, And that smile, like sunshine, dart That our ears perceive no more,
| Into many a sunless heart, Deafened by the cataract's roar ?
For a smile of God thou art.
THE SEA-DIVER. My way is on the bright blue sea, | At night, upon my storm-drenched wing, My sleep upon the rocky tide ;
I poised above a helmless bark, And many an eye has followed me, And soon I saw the shattered thing
Where billows clasp the worn sea-side. Had passed away and left no mark. My plumage bears the crimson blush, And when the wind and storm had done,
When ocean by the sun is kissed ! ! A ship, that had rode out the gale, When fades the evening's purple flush, Sunk down without a signal-gun,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. And none was left to tell the tale. Full many a fathom down beneath I saw the pomp of day depart
The bright arch of the splendid deep, The cloud resign its golden crown, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe When to the ocean's beating heart
O'er living myriads in their sleep. The sailor's wasted corse went down. They rested by the coral throne, Peace be to those whose graves are made And by the pearly diadem,
Beneath the bright and silver sea ! Where the pale sea-grape bad o'ergrown Peace that their relics there were laid,
The glorious dwelling made for them. With no vain pride and pageantry.
THE BELFRY OF BRUGES.
CARILLON, In the ancient town of Bruges,
And I thought how like these chimes In the quaint old Flemish city,
Are the poet's airy rhymes, As the evening shades descended,
All his rhymes and roundelays, Low and loud and sweetly blended, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, Low at times and loud at times,
From the belfry of his brain, And changing like a poet's rhymes, Scattered downward, though in vain, Rang the beautiful wild chimes,
On the roofs and stones of cities ! From the Belfry in the market
For by night the drowsy ear Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Under its curtains cannot hear,
And by day men go their ways, Then, with deep sonorous clangor
Hearing the music as they pass,
Than the hollow sound of brass.
Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn Silence, silence everywbere,
In the narrow lanes of life, On the earth and in the air,
When the dusk and hush of night Save that footsteps here and there Shut out the incessant din Of some burgher home returning, Of daylight and its toil and strife, By the street lamps faintly burning, May listen with a calm delight For a moment woke the echoes
To the poet's melodies, Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song, But amid my broken slumbers
Thoughts that he has cherished long; Still I heard those magic numbers, Hears amid the chime and singing As they loud proclaimed the flight The bells of his own village ringing, And stolen marches of the night; And wakes, and finds his slumberous Till their chimes in sweet collision
eyes Mingled with each wandering vision, Wet with most delicious tears. Mingled with the fortune-telling Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay Which amid the waste expanses
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé, Of the silent land of trances
Listening with a wild delight Have their solitary dwelling.
To the chimes that, through the night, All else seemed asleep in Bruges, Rang their changes from the Belfry In the quaint old Flemish city.
Of that quaint old Flemish city.
THE BELFRY OF BRUGES.
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown ;
gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.