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That leads to the throne,
In the fountain of youth That opes the child's olden
The fleeting reflection Regions Elysian!
Of some bygone perfection
That still lingers in me?
A STRANGER came one night to Yussouf's The magic cup shatters,
tent, Breaks the spell of the waters,
Saying, “ Behold, one outcast and in dread, And the sand cone once more,
Against whose life the bow of power is With a ceaseless renewing,
bent, Its dance is pursuing
Who flies, and bath not where to lay his On the silvery floor, O'er and o'er,
I come to thee for shelter and for food, With a noiseless and ceaseless renew- To Yussouf, called through all our tribes ing
“This tent is mine," said Yussouf, “but no 'T is a woodland enchanted! If you ask me, Where is it?
Than it is God's; come in and be at peace; I can but make answer,
Freely shalt thou partake of all my store “ 'T is past my disclosing;'
As I of His who buildeth over these Not to choice is it granted
Our tents his glorious roof of night and By sure paths to visit
day, The still pool enclosing
And at whose door none ever yet heard Its blithe little dancer;
So Yussouf entertained his guest that night, When the pulses of air rest,
And, waking him ere day, said: “Here is And all things lie dreaming
gold; In drowsy haze steaming
My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight; From the wood's glowing embers, Depart before the prying day grow bold.” Then, sometimes, unheeding,
As one lamp lights another, nor grows And asking not whither,
less, By a sweet inward leading
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness. My feet are drawn thither, And, looking with awe in the magical That inward light the stranger's face made mirror,
grand, I see through my tears,
Which shines from all self-conquest; kneelHalf doubtful of seeing,
ing low, The face unperverted,
He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's The warm golden being
hand, Of a child of five years;
• Sheik, I cannot leave thee And spite of the mists and the error,
so; And the days overcast,
I will repay thee; all this thou hast done Can feel that I walk undeserted, Unto that İbrahim who slew thy son!” But forever attended By the glad heavens that bended “ Take thrice the gold,” said Yussouf, " for O'er the innocent past;
with thee Toward fancy or truth
Into the desert, never to return, Doth the sweet vision win me ? My one black thought shall ride away from Dare I think that I cast
There thou sittest; now and then thou
moanest; Thou dost talk with what we cannot see, Lookest at us with an eye so doubtful, It doth put us very far from thee; There thou sittest; we would fain be nigh
thee, But we know that it can never be.
We can touch thee, still we are no nearer;
swer, Like two prisoners through a wall of stone.
'T were glorious, no doubt, to be
Seeing something, - us thou seest not.
Strange it is that, in this open bright
ness, Thou shouldst sit in such a narrow cell; Strange it is that thou shouldst be so lone
some Where those are who love thee all so
ONE feast, of holy days the crest,
I, though no Churchman, love to keep, All-Saints, the unknown good that rest
In God's still memory folded deep; The bravely dumb that did their deed,
And scorned to blot it with a name, Men of the plain heroic breed, That loved Heaven's silence more than
Not so much of thee is left among us As the hum outliving the hushed bell.
Such lived not in the past alone,
But thread to-day the unheeding street,
Elfish I may rightly name thee;
Elfish daughter of Apollo !
But when we make a friend of thee,
Feels through its gladdened fibres go And, as her incense floats and curls
Or poises on its tremulous stalk
So winds and loiters, idly free,
The current of unguided talk, And, when our earth hath wandered far Now laughter-rippled, and now caught Into the cold, and deep snow covers
In smooth, dark pools of deeper thought. The walks of our New England lovers,
Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, Their sweet secluded evening-star !
A sweetly unobtrusive third; 'T was with thy rays the English Muse For thou hast magic beyond wine, Ripened her mild domestic hues;
To unlock natures each to each; 'T was by thy flicker that she conned The unspoken thought thou canst divine; The fireside wisdom that enrings
Thou fill'st the pauses of the speech With light from heaven familiar things; With whispers that to dream-land reach By thee she found the homely faith
And frozen fancy-springs unchain In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th, In Arctic outskirts of the brain : When Death, extinguishing his torch, Sun of all inmost confidences, Gropes for the latch-string in the porch ; To thy rays doth the heart unclose The love that wanders not beyond
Its formal calyx of pretences, His earliest nest, but sits and sings
That close against rude day's offences, While children smooth his patient wings; And open its shy midnight rose ! Therefore with thee I love to read Our brave old poets: at thy touch how stirs
Thou holdest not the master key Life in the withered words ! how swift With which thy Sire sets free the mystic recede
gates Time's shadows ! and how glows again Of Past and Future: not for common fates Through its dead mass the incandescent Do they wide open fling, verse,
And, with a far-heard ring, As when upon the anvils of the brain Swing back their willing valves melodiIt glittering lay, cyclopically wrought
ously; By the fast - throbbing hammers of the Only to ceremonial days, poet's thought!
And great processions of imperial song Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred,
That set the world at gaze, The aspirations unattained,
Doth such high privilege belong: The rhythms so rathe and delicate,
But thou a postern-door canst ope They bent and strained
To humbler chambers of the selfsame And broke, beneath the sombre weight
palace Of any airiest mortal word.
Where Memory lodges, and her sister
Whose being is but as a crystal chalice What warm protection dost thou bend Which, with her various mood, the elder Round curtained talk of friend with friend,
fills While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, Of joy or sorrow, To softest outline rounds the roof,
So coloring as she wills Or the rude North with baffled strain With hues of yesterday the unconscious Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! Now the kind nymph to Bacchus born By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems Gifted upon her natal morn
Thou sinkest, and my fancy sinks with By him with fire, by her with dreams,
thee: Nicotia, dearer to the Muse
For thee I took the idle shell,
But they are gone who listened well;
Some are in beaven, and all are far from
Even as I sing, it turns to pain,
swell: Enough; I come not of the race That hawk their sorrows in the market
place. Earth stops the ears I best had loved to
please; Then break, ye untuned chords, or rust in
peace! As if a white-haired actor should come
back Some midnight to the theatre void and
black, And there rehearse his youth's great part Mid thin applauses of the ghosts, So seems it now : ye crowd upon my
heart, And I bow down in silence, shadowy hosts !
And is it right, this mood of mind
For musing stricture,
Only as picture ?
In death's dark arches,
The muffled marches.
O Duty, am I dead to thee
That drifts tow'rd Silence ? And are those visioned shores I see
But sirens' islands ?
How struggles with the tempest's swells
Throb fast and faster,
News of disaster.
But on my far-off solitude
And charmed by distance,
Of my existence.
Are those, I muse, the Easter chimes ?
Pay gentle allegiance
These dreamy regions.
So still and saintly,
Mr. Bartlett, the editor of Familiar Quotations, was a near neighbor of Lowell, and with him was long a member of a whist-party. Fit for an Abbot of Theleme,
For the whole Cardinals' College, or The Pope himself to see in dream Before his lenten vision gleam,
He lies there, the sogdologer !