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SHE CAME AND WENT. As a twig trembles which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrill'd and stirr'd : I only know She came and went.

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven: I only know She came and went.

As at one bound our swift Spring heaps
The orchards full of bloom and scent,
So clove her May my wintry sleeps:
I only know She came and went.

An angel stood and met my gaze
Through the low doorway of my tent,—
The tent is struck, the vision stays:
I only know She came and went.

O, when the room grows slowly dim,
And life's last oil is nearly spent,
One gush of light these eyes will brim,
Only to think She came and went.

MARIA WHITE LOWELL.

1821-1853.

AN OPIUM FANTASY.

Soft hangs the opiate in the brain,
And lulling soothes the edge of pain,
Till harshest sound, far off or near,
Sings floating in its mellow sphere.

What wakes me from my heavy dream?
Or am I still asleep?
Those long and soft vibrations seem
A slumbrous charm to keep.

The graceful play, a moment stopp'd,
Distance again unrolls,

Like silver balls that, softly dropp'd,
Ring into golden bowls.

I question of the poppies red,
The fairy flaunting band,

While I, a weed with drooping head
Within their phalanx stand:

"Some airy one, with scarlet cap!
The name unfold to me
Of this new minstrel who can lap
Sleep in his melody!"

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Bright grew their scarlet-kerchief'd heads,
As freshening winds had blown,
And from their gently-swaying beds

They sang in undertone :

"O, he is but a little Owl,

The smallest of his kin,

Who sits beneath the Midnight's cowl
And makes this airy din."

"Deceitful tongues of fiery tints!

Far more than this ye know: That he is your Enchanted Prince Doom'd as an Owl to go.

"Now his fond play for years hath stopp'd; But nightly he unrolls

His silver balls that, softly dropp'd,

Ring into golden bowls."

WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

1820-1881.

EL AMIN-THE FAITHFUL.

Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,

But a great free Son of Nature, lion-soul'd and eagle-eyed :

Who is this before whose presence idols tumble to the sod? While he cries out—“Allah Akbar! and there is no god but God!"

Wandering in the solemn desert, he has wonder'd, like a child Not as yet too proud to wonder, at the sun and star and wild.

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"O thou Moon! who made thy brightness? Stars! who hung ye there on high?

Answer! so my soul may worship: I must worship, or I die."

Then there fell the brooding silence that precedes the thunder's roll;

And the old Arabian Whirlwind call'd another Arab soul.

Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,

But a great free Son of Nature, lion-soul'd and eagle-eyed.

He has stood and seen Mount Hara to the Awful Presence nod;

He has heard from cloud and lightning-" Know there is no god but God!"

Call ye this man.an Impostor? He was call'd The Faithful,

when

A boy he wander'd o'er the deserts, by the wild-eyed Arab men.

He was always call'd The Faithful. Truth, he knew, was

Allah's breath;

But the Lie went darkly gnashing through the corridors of Death.

He was fierce!" Yes! fierce at falsehood, fierce at hideous bits of wood

That the Koreish taught the people made the sun and solitude.

But his heart was also gentle; and affection's graceful palm Waving in his tropic spirit to the weary brought a balm.

"Precepts?"-Have on each compassion! Lead the stranger to your door!

In your dealings keep up justice! Give a tenth unto the poor!

"Yet, ambitious!

and sweet

Yes! ambitious, while he heard the calm

Aidenn-voices sing, to trample conquer'd Hell beneath his feet.

"Islam?"-Yes! submit to heaven!" Prophet?"-To the East thou art.

What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?

And the great Heart of the Desert stirr'd unto that solemn

strain

Rolling from the trump at Hara over Error's troubled main.

And a hundred dusky millions honour still El Amin's rod, Daily chanting-" Allah Akbar! know there is no god but God!"

Call him then no more Impostor! Mecca is the Choral Gate Where, till Zion's noon shall take them, nations in the morning

wait.

EBENEZER JONES.

1820-1860.

RAIN.

More than the wind, more than the snow,
More than the sunshine, I love rain :
Whether it droppeth soft and low,
Whether it rusheth amain.

Dark as the night it spreadeth its wings,
Slow and silently, up on the hills;

Then sweeps o'er the vale, like a steed that springs
From the grasp of a thousand wills.

Swift sweeps under heaven the raven cloud's flight;
And the land and the lakes and the main
Lie belted beneath with steel-bright light,
The light of the swift-rushing rain.

On evenings of summer, when sunlight is low,
Soft the rain falls from opal-hued skies;
And the flowers the most delicate summer can show
Are not stirr'd by its gentle surprise.

It falls on the pools, and no wrinkling it makes,
But touching melts in, like the smile

That sinks in the face of a dreamer, but breaks
Not the calm of his dream's happy wile.

The grass rises up as it falls on the meads,
The bird softlier sings in his bower,

And the circles of gnats circle on like wing'd seeds
Through the soft sunny lines of the shower.

WHEN THE WORLD IS BURNING.

When the world is burning,

Fired within, yet turning

Round with face unscathed;

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