BAYARD TAYLOR. [U. s. A.] THE MOUNTAINS. (From "THE MASQUE OF THE GODS.") HOWE'ER the wheels of Time go round, The vapors and the sunbeams braid, AN ORIENTAL IDYL. A SILVER javelin which the hills Have hurled upon the plain below, The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills, Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. I hear the never-ending laugh Of jostling waves that come and go, And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars "GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.' They lay along the battery's side, SARA J. LIPPINCOTT (GRACE GREENWOOD). [U. s. A.] THE POET OF TO-DAY. MORE than the soul of ancient song is given To thee, O poet of to-day!— thy dower Comes, from a higher than Olympian heaven, In holier beauty and in larger power. To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse; Would make thy song the voice of her appealing, And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse. While in her season of great darkness sharing, Hail thou the coming of each promise star Which climbs the midnight of her long despairing, And watch for morning o'er the hills afar. Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages, Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard; Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages The human utterance of God's living word. But bring not thou the battle's stormy | He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath, Came charging like a star across the lists of death, chorus, The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight, Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us, Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. MATTHEW ARNOLD. Became a dreadful face which did oppress Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. It fled, when I burst forth into a cry, A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep; I hid, but in all corners they did pry, And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap; They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep. "Strange constellations burned above my head, Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew, Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled, As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through, Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue." The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea, My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you! The wind blows shrill between my love and me. Fond heart! the space between was but the apple-tree. There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest; Like washing water on the figured sands, His being came and went in sweet unrest, As from the mighty shelter of his breast The Lady Barbara her head uprears With a wan smile, "Methinks I'm but half blest: Now when I've found thee, after weary years, I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears." MATTHEW ARNOLD. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. TEN years!-and to my waking eye Once more the roofs of Berne appear; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream, and do I linger here? The clouds are on the Oberland, 265 The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar, And from the blue twin lakes it comes, Flows by the town, the churchyard fair, And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, The house, and is my Marguerite there? Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Quick through the oleanders brush, And clap thy hands, and cry, 'Tis thou? Or hast thou long since wandered back, Daughter of France! to France, thy home; And flitted down the flowery track Where feet like thine too lightly come? Doth riotous laughter now replace Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, Thy cheek's soft hue and fluttering lace The kerchief that enwound thy hair? Or is it over?-art thou dead? Dead-and no warning shiver ran Across my heart, to say thy thread Of life was cut, and closed thy span! Could from earth's ways that figure slight Fail from earth's air, and I not know? Or shall I find thee still, but changed, But not the Marguerite of thy prime? With all thy being rearranged, Passed through the crucible of time; With spirit vanished, beauty waned, Of all that was my Marguerite's own? I will not know!-- for wherefore try To things by mortal course that live A shadowy durability For which they were not meant to give? Like driftwood spars which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean-plain, |