How blithe upon the breezy cliffs

At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs

That danced along the flood!

Or when the western wave grew bright

With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light

Which dreaming poets sing

That Eden where th' immortal brave

Dwell in a land serene

Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen;

Ah dream, too full of saddening truth!
Those mansions o'er the main

Are like the hopes I built in youth-
As sunny and as vain!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that;
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' thatWhen man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. ROBERT BURNE.

THOMAS Moore.

HONEST POVERTY.

Is there for honest poverty
Wha hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp-
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that

You see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that--
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He 's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A princo can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might—
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!

"CONTEMPLATE ALL THIS WORK." CONTEMPLATE all this work of time,

The giant laboring in his youth;
Nor dream of human love and truth
As dying nature's earth and lime;

But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say
The solid earth whereon we tread
In tracts of fluent heat began,

And grew to seeming random forms,
The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
Till at the last arose the man-

Who throve and branched from clime to clime
The herald of a higher race,
And of himself in higher place,
If so he types this work of time
Within himself, from more to more;

And crowned with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not an idle ore,

But iron dug from central gloom,

And heated hot with burning fears, And dipped in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the shocks of doom Arise and fly

To shape and use.

The reeling faun, the sensual feast!
Move upward, working out the beast,

And let the ape and tiger die!

ALFRED TENNYSON

IS IT COME?

Is it come? they said, on the banks of the Nile,

Who looked for the world's long-promised day,

And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil,

With the desert's sand and the granite gray. From the pyramid, temple, and treasured dead,

We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan; They tell us of the tyrant's dread

Yet there was hope when that day began. The Chaldee came, with his starry lore,

And built up Babylon's crown and creed; And bricks were stamped on the Tigris shore With signs which our sages scarce can read. From Ninus' temple, and Nimrod's tower,

The rule of the old east's empire spread Unreasoning faith and unquestioned power— But still, Is it come? the watcher said.

The light of the Persian's worshipped flame, The ancient bondage its splendor threw ; And once, on the west a sunrise came,

When Greece to her freedom's trust was true;

With dreams to the utmost ages dear,
With human gods, and with god-like men,
No marvel the far-off day seemed near,
To eyes that looked through her laurels then.

The Romans conquered, and revelled too,
Till honor, and faith, and power, were gone;
And deeper old Europe's darkness grew,

As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. The gown was learning, the sword was law; The people served in the oxen's stead; But ever some gleam the watcher saw, And evermore, Is it come? they said.

Poet and seer that question caught,

Above the din of life's fears and frets; It marched with letters, it toiled with thought, Through schools and creeds which the

earth forgets.

And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive, And traders barter our world awayYet hearts to that golden promise cleave, And still, at times, Is it come? they say.

708

The days of the nations bear no trace
Of all the sunshine so far foretold;
The cannon speaks in the teacher's place-
The age is weary with work and gold;
And high hopes wither, and memories wane,
On hearths and altars the fires are dead;
But that brave faith hath not lived in vain→
And this is all that our watcher said.

FRANCES BROWN.

IF THAT WERE TRUE!

T is long ago,—we have toiled and traded,
Have lost and fretted, have gained and grieved,
Since last the light of that fond faith faded;
But, friends-in its day—what we believed!
The poets' dreams and the peasants' stories-
Oh, never will time that trust renew!
Yet they were old on the earth before us,
And lovely tales,-had they been true!

Some spake of homes in the greenwood hid den,

Where age was fearless and youth was freeWhere none at life's board seemed guests unbidden,

But men had years like the forest tree:
Goodly and fair and full of summer,
As lives went by when the world was new,
Ere ever the angel steps passed from her,—
Oh, dreamers and bards, if that were true!

Some told us of a stainless standard-
Of hearts that only in death grew cold,
Whose march was ever in freedom's van

guard,

And not to be stayed by steel or gold.
The world to their very graves was debtor-
The tears of her love fell there like dew;
But there had been neither slave nor fetter
This day in her realms, had that been true!

Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer.
They told that life was an honest game,
Where fortune favored the fairest player,
And only the false found loss and blame-
That men were honored for gifts and graces,
And not for the prizes folly drew;
But there would be many a change of places.
In hovel and hall, if that were true!

Some said to our silent souls, What fear ye?
And talked of a love not based on clay-
Of faith that would neither wane nor weary,
With all the dust of the pilgrim's day;
They said that fortune and time were changers,
But not by their tides such friendship grew;
Oh, we had never been trustless strangers
Among our people, if that were true!

And yet since the fairy time hath perished,
With all its freshness, from hills and hearts,
The last of its love, so vainly cherished,
Is not for these days of schools and marts.
Up, up! for the heavens still circle o'er us;
There's wealth to win and there 's work to do,
There's a sky above, and a grave before us—
And, brothers, beyond them all is true!

Be patient! oh, be patient! Put your ear against the earth;

Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth

How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way,

Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in the day.

Be patient! oh, be patient! The germs of mighty thought

Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be wrought;

But as sure as there's a power that makes the grass appear,

Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be here.

Be patient! oh, be patient!-go and watch the wheat ears grow

So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe

Day after day, day after day, till the ear is

Then I said, "I covet truth;

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat

I leave it behind with the games of youth."
As I spoke, beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground:
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;
Beauty through my senses stole-

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

THE LOST CHURCH.

IN yonder dim and pathless wood
Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour,
And peals of solemn music swell

As from some minster's lofty tower.
From age to age those sounds are heard,
Borne on the breeze at twilight hour-
From age to age no foot hath found

A pathway to the minster's tower!

Late, wandering in that ancient wood,
As onward through the gloom I trod,
From all the woes and wrongs of earth
My soul ascended to its God.
When lo! in the hushed wilderness

I heard, far off, that solemn bell: Still, heavenward as my spirit soared, Wilder and sweeter rang the knell.

While thus in holy musings wrapt,

My mind from outward sense withdrawn, Some power had caught me from the earth, And far into the heavens upborne. Methought a hundred years had passed In mystic visions as I lay--When suddenly the parting clouds Seemed opening wide, and far away.

No midday sun its glory shed,

The stars were shrouded from my sight; And lo! majestic o'er my head,

A minster shone in solemn light. High through the lurid heavens it seemed Aloft on cloudy wings to rise, Till all its pointed turrets gleamed, Far flaming, through the vaulted skies!

The bell with full resounding peal
Rang booming through the rocking tower;
No hand had stirred its iron tongue,
Slow swaying to the storm-wind's power.
My bosom beating like a bark

Dashed by the surging ocean's foam,
I trod with faltering, fearful joy
The mazes of the mighty dome.

A soft light through the oriel streamed
Like summer moonlight's golden gloom,
Far through the dusky arches gleamed,
And filled with glory all the room.

Pale sculptures of the sainted dead
Seemed waking from their icy thrall:
And many a glory-circled head
Smiled sadly from the storied wall.

Low at the altar's foot I knelt,

Transfixed with awe, and dumb with dresi For, blazoned on the vaulted roof, Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. Yet when I raised my eyes once more, The vaulted roof itself was goneWide open was heaven's lofty door, And every cloudy veil withdrawn!

What visions burst upon my soul,

What joys unutterable there In waves on waves for ever roll

Like music through the pulseless airThese never mortal tongue may tell :

Let him who fain would prove their powe Pause when he hears that solemn knell Float on the breeze at twilight hour. LUDWIG UHLAND. (Germa Paraphrase of SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE.

I WENT to the garden of love, And saw what I never had seen; A chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green.

And the gate of this chapel was shut,
And "thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turned to the garden of love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And priests in black gowns were walking
their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys and de sires.

WILLIAM BLAKE