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metime in feasts and follies, for he went ifelike through all things; and his thoughts then rose

ke sparkles in the bright wine, brighter still; metimes in dreams, and then the shining words ould wake him in the dark before his face. l things talked thoughts to him. The sea went mad

show his meaning; and the awful sun undered his thoughts into him; and at night e stars would whisper theirs, the moon sigh hers.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

THE POET'S IMPULSE.

FROM "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE," CANTO III.

SKY, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul

To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll

Of your departing voices is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless, if I rest.
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high

nest?

Could I embody and unbosom now

That which is most within me, could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,

All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe - into one word,

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And that one word were Lightning, I would And breathe God's peace, to earth "glad tidings" speak;

But as it is, I live and die unheard,

th a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

bringing

From the near heavens, of old so dim and far! SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT (Grace Greenwood).

LORD BYRON.

THE INNER VISION.

ST Sweet it is with unuplifted eyes pace the ground, if path there be or none, hile a fair region round the traveller lies ich he forbears again to look upon; ased rather with some soft ideal scene, e work of fancy, or some happy tone meditation, slipping in between

beauty coming and the beauty gone.

BOOKS.

FROM "THE KAléder of shepeRDES," 1528.
HE that many bokes redys,
Cunnyinge shall he be.
Wysedome is soone caught;
In many leues it is sought:
But slouth, that no boke bought,
For reason taketh no thought;
His thryfte cometh behynde.

ANONYMOUS.

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Who would have thought my shrivelled heart"This tent is mine," said Yussouf, "but no more Could have recovered greenness? It was gone

Quite underground; as flowers depart
To see their mother root, when they have blown;
Where they together

All the hard weather,

Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an houre;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amisse,

This or that is :

Thy word is all, if we could spell.

O that I once past changing were,

Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,

Than it is God's; come in, and be at peace ;
Freely shalt thou partake of all my store
As I of his who buildeth over these
Our tents his glorious roof of night and day,
And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay."

So Yussouf entertained his guest that night,
And, waking him ere day, said: "Here is gold,
My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight,
Depart before the prying day grow bold."
As one lamp lights another, nor grows less,
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.

That inward light the stranger's face made grand,
Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling low,
He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand,
Sobbing: "O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so;
I will repay thee; all this thou hast done

Offring at heav'n, growing and groning thither; Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!"

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THE sun comes up and the sun goes down,

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian | And day and night are the same as one; throne was done,

The year grows green, and the year grows brown, And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning And what is it all, when all is done?

victory won.

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy,

Grains of sombre or shining sand,
Gliding into and out of the hand.

And men go down in ships to the seas, Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bring. And a hundred ships are the same as one; ing forth to die.

And backward and forward blows the breeze,
And what is it all, when all is done?

Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo, IA tide with never a shore in sight

perish in my thirst;

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Getting steadily on to the night.

The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream,
And what is it all, when all is done?
The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
And alway the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

A PSALM OF LIFE.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

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I journeyed many roads; I knocked at gates;
I spoke to each wayfarer

I met, and said, "A heritage awaits
Me. Art not thou the bearer

Of news? some message sent to me whereby
I learn which way my new possessions lie?"

Some asked me in; naught lay beyond their door;
Some smiled, and would not tarry,

But said that men were just behind who bore
More gold than I could carry;

And so the morn, the noon, the day, were spent,
While empty-handed up and down I went.

At last one cried, whose face I could not see,
As through the mists he hasted :

Hath no man told thee that thou art joint heir With one named Christ, who waits the goods to share?"

The one named Christ I sought for many days,
In many places vainly;

I heard men name his name in many ways;
I saw his temples plainly;

But they who named him most gave me no sign
To find him by, or prove the heirship mine.

And when at last I stood before his face,
I knew him by no token

Save subtle air of joy which filled the place;
Our greeting was not spoken;

In solemn silence I received my share,
Kneeling before my brother and "joint heir."

My share! No deed of house or spreading lands,
As I had dreamed; no measure

Heaped up with gold; my elder brother's hands
Had never held such treasure.

Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed :
My brother had not where to lay his head.

My share! The right like him to know all pain
Which hearts are made for knowing;
The right to find in loss the surest gain;
To reap my joy from sowing

In bitter tears; the right with him to keep
A watch by day and night with all who weep.

My share! To-day men call it grief and death;
I see the joy and life to-morrow;

I thank my Father with my every breath,
For this sweet legacy of sorrow;

And through my tears I call to each "joint heir"
With Christ, "Make haste to ask him for thy
share."

HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

SYMPATHY.

FROM "ION," ACT 1. SC. 2.

'Tis a little thing

To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happier hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense, yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall
Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears, relax the knotted hand

"Poor child, what evil ones have hindered thee To know the bonds of fellowship again;
Till this whole day is wasted?

And shed on the departing soul a sense,

More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels.

SIR THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.

CHORUS.

With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician

OF MUSIC.

AN ODE.

'T WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son:

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne :

His valiant peers were placed around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
(So should desert in arms be crowned);
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride

In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

CHORUS.

Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touched the lyre;
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above
(Such is the power of mighty love).
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,

When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign
of the world.

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity! they shout around;
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.

With ravished ears

The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

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Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.

The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,
Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius, great and good,

By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole ;
And tears began to flow.

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